


garden of eden

by ecliptica (rosaire)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Fantasy, Angels, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fallen Angels, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Some Humor, lowered the rating to T since there won't be graphic sexual content, warning for strong language and themes regardless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-01-13 03:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18460694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosaire/pseuds/ecliptica
Summary: On the eve of a less-than-stellar birthday, Sandalphon meets Lucifer, a handsome barista working at a quaint cafe called the Garden of Eden. Sandalphon is drawn to him, but Lucifer is not all that he appears to be; he seemingly emanates light and his voice resonates with the grandeur of a divine being. Yet, Sandalphon assures himself he knows better—Lucifer is human. There's no such thing as angels....Right?Then Sandalphon chances upon a book with an unknown author, written with such dreamlike prose it pulls him into a series of dreams—too familiar to be false, yet too fantastical to be real. But these dreams open his eyes, little-by-little, to the discovery that the world he lives in is only half the picture.And the memories of another life echo from the last breath of a lost promise.





	1. sunrise in gold

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy, here we go again!
> 
> originally, this idea started as a purely modern setting with minimal angst, but then my mind got to grinding its gears and I found myself desperate to incorporate some elements of fantasy. the result—an angst parade. the synopsis, as you can garner from the summary and the opening of this first chapter, is that divine beings coexist with humans albeit in different worlds. as the fic progresses, the lore will certainly become more fleshed out. I am keen against dumping a bunch of information onto readers all at once; I like to piece it out bit-by-bit to make it more manageable.
> 
> I have a general gist of how I want this fic to go, but considering I'm still outlining and nitpicking the little details, count on a rather slow, unpredictable update schedule. I additionally have my hands full with the closing of the spring semester, and I have several other fics I would like to write. I will do my absolute best, however, to see the end of this fic through—I have left too many extended projects unfinished and I want to end that curse.
> 
> that being said, I hope you enjoy this first chapter! it's a bit of an introductory one but starting next chapter, we'll start biting into the real meat.
> 
> P.S. there will be non-explicit sex scenes (eventually); I plan to write out explicit versions of these scenes as side stories. my reasoning for this is that I know that E-fics aren't everyone's cup of tea, and I want to make the story enjoyable for as many people as possible.
> 
> GBF Twitter: [@ecliptica000](https://twitter.com/ecliptica000)  
> Main Twitter: [@empyreden](https://twitter.com/empyreden)

A figure kneels before the setting sun. Clouds drift by aimlessly, darkened by the fading light, and the distant sound of clashing swords echoes across the sky. Columns cracked by the brutality of war watch over as silent sentinels. Tattered banners stained with blood flutter from the temple’s crumbling roof.

In front of the figure, a body rests prone on the mosaic, covered by a pure white sheet left undisturbed by the wind. The body is still, silent, rigid like stone. The figure looming over it reaches out with trembling fingers and weakly grasps onto the cloth, tears falling from his face.

“Forgive me,” he mourns, voice wracked with guilt. “Forgive me, please, for I have failed you…” He clings onto the body and smothers his face into the one forever obscured by white. “I promised… I promised…”

The sun settles into darkness with the last breath of a dying light.

 

—

 

Light dawns over the horizon. Its gentle yet bright glow, peeking through the city buildings closely packed together, rouses the quiet night from its slumber. Streaks of gold paint the lilac sky, huing it to rose, and wake the day to the sight of its own rebirth. The day lives in a constant cycle of death and life; it’s defeated by the dark only to be born again, brighter and grander than before. No matter how many times it falls, it always rises.

Always.

Morning light filters through the window of a studio apartment, bronzing the curtains with a heavy gold hue. It stretches to every corner of the plain, nondescript room, overlaying gold onto white, and falls in thin streams over the plain sheets of the double sized bed. A bundle of messy, mocha brown hair pokes out from underneath the sheets, shifting in response to the light’s untimely arrival, and an arm tugs the sheets higher, attempting to shield against the invasive morning.

On the simple nightstand beside the bed, a phone rests idle on its charging dock. Its screen displays 5:59 AM in big, white text, stark against a background of a dark blue galaxy. It flicks to 6:00 AM and proceeds to burst into a series of loud shrill beeps— _beepbeepbeepbeepbeep—_ pausing for two seconds only to start ringing again. The bundle of hair groans, reaches out from under the sheets, and smacks the phone a couple of times in an attempt to silence it.

No use—the phone keeps on beeping. Groaning again, and with an exasperated sigh for extra measure, the bundle rises from the pillows to reveal the disgruntled face of a young man, eyes scrunched tight in a state of half-sleep.

His name is Sandalphon, and little does he know that today is a special day—in more ways than one.

He picks up the noisy phone, glares at it, and stabs the Snooze button with his finger before throwing it back onto the nightstand. “Five more minutes…,” he grumbles, plopping his face back into the pillow. He closes his eyes and readies himself for just a few more blissful moments of sleep when—

_Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep._

Oh for _fuck’s_ sake. Five minutes couldn’t have passed already, time just doesn’t work like that. He refuses to believe it. He deserves those extra precious minutes! Grumbling, he snaps his head up to glare at the phone again and snatches it toward his face.

6:10 AM. What the fuck?

He stares at the screen with the lethality of a dozen daggers, hoping to intimidate time itself into reversing the clock. If only he were a chronomancer of some sorts, he’d wind back time with a single snap of his fingers—better yet, he’d freeze time and allow himself the luxury of sleeping for as long as he wanted without interruption. Oh, that’s the dream alright; an unobtainable one, but a dream nonetheless.

His two younger siblings are always enthusiastic about that, dreams and the pursuit of them that is. They have a habit of sending him positivity posts from every bit of social media they have their souls attached to, rambling on about staying hopeful, and fighting for one’s dreams no matter the cost.

The white text flicked to 6:11 AM. Well, there goes his chronomancy dream. So much for those positivity posts!

Sighing in complete, utter defeat by the hands of a metaphysical concept, Sandalphon tosses the phone into the sprawling labyrinth of his messy sheets and pushes himself off the bed to prepare for the new day. A new, unexciting, potentially stressful day. As it is, he’s running on only a few hours of sleep, thanks to a certain neighbor engaging in the loudest, most disruptive sex known in the lengthy history of horny.

He throws a glare to the wall adjacent to his bed and shudders; he can still hear the moaning and the creaking of a bed rocking relentlessly against the wall. Last night, he woke up with the terror that the wall would fall on him at any moment, and subject him to a sight that would have inevitably resulted in him bleaching his own eyes. Fortunately, the wall _hadn’t_ caved in, but the same can’t be said for his ears.

“Stupid horny fucker,” he grumbles, kicking one of his shoes across the room.

And now he’s forced to face the greatest challenge feared by all sensible, working adults: retail. God, he hates his job, but a Bachelor’s in Photography and Visual Arts doesn’t pay the bills nor put food on his shitty secondhand-bought table. Hell, even retail doesn’t cover that most of the time, but at least it’s something. Something is better than nothing, so he tells himself, and he refuses to admit to his adoptive mother that he’s struggling to make ends meet.

He has to prove himself—one way or another.

Dragging his feet across the floor, Sandalphon trudges into his bathroom, shuffles off his warm pajamas, and attempts to wake himself with a freezing cold shower. As the showerhead blasts him with cold water, he slumps his forehead against the cool tile and sighs, dreading the upcoming hours. What he would do to just stay at home and laze around on the couch, binge watching whatever’s popular at the moment. He can’t remember the last time he had a day for himself. Hell, he can’t even remember the last time he had anything reminiscent to a break.

Sucking in a deep breath, he lathers shampoo into his messy hair and scrubs his body with a sandalwood-scented wash. He had received his first bottle of the wash as a gift from his siblings, specifically chosen because of the name. “Sandalwood for Sandalphon,” they had said in unison, gleefully and with self-satisfied smirks plastered on their impish faces. He rolls his eyes just thinking about it.

He does, however, genuinely like the scent, and buys it for himself now whenever he runs out. He has to begrudgingly admit that those two have impeccable taste, not just in fragrance, but also in the clothes they buy for him on special days. Not that he would ever tell that to them directly; he has a bad boy reputation to maintain after all.

On the other side of town, his siblings burst into laughter in the midst of their sleep. Their brother? A bad boy? Yeah, right.

Sandalphon rinses off the soap from his hair and body and stands under the cold spray for another minute or two. As he watches the fluffy white suds dissolve and flow into the drain, he contemplates calling in sick. But, then he thinks about the money he’d be losing, and decides against the idea on the spot. There’s no point in beating around the bush. He has to send his ass to work no matter how much he hates it.

With another agonized sigh, he steps out of the shower and dries himself off. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, scowling at the eyebags that mar his skin with sickly purple patches, and pokes and prods at various parts of himself for no good reason other than to stall. Still, he appreciates his body; clear skin, lean muscle, neither bulky nor waifish. And according to his sister, he has the hips and curves to put ‘an hourglass to shame’.

Whatever _that_ means.

Trudging back into his bedroom, he combs out his tangled hair with one hand while pulling out clothes from his closet with the other. He tosses on a fairly simple outfit: pants, v-neck, hoodie, boots. Every piece is from his job—he has to promote their goods by wearing them, and his manager insists he has the best moody boy face that appeals to their intended demographic of equally moody teenagers.

“I’m twenty-two, dammit,” Sandalphon grumbles to no one in particular, just as his phone buzzes from within the labyrinth of sheets. Huffing, he yanks the sheets off the bed, watches his phone hit the floor with a loud smack, and picks it up to read the text.

  

Make that twenty-three, apparently.

“What?” He blinks once, twice, as the text slowly registers in his brain. “It’s my what?” He quickly checks the date—March 7th. His birthday. He forgot his own birthday.

A couple of more texts buzz in as he stands there, dumbfounded.

 

He snorts, amused that his own mother is fully aware of the lethality of her homemade cooking. She’s a wonderful parent in every other regard—understanding, gentle or stern when needed, and strong enough to wrestle any person who would dare to lay their hands on any of her children. But, every dish she cooks could technically be classified as a weapon of biological warfare.

  

Why does none of that surprise him? To think that those two conniving devils are graduating high school this year… He shudders at the thought. Gran and Djeeta had grown from innocent little darlings to impish fiends with a penchant for pettiness; they snatch at every opportunity to remind him of all the times he hadn’t been the nicest big brother.

  

Not waiting to find out if she believes him or not, Sandalphon pockets his phone and jogs into the kitchen for a quick breakfast. Today’s menu is instant oatmeal, as it was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that one. It’s the only thing he can afford, and the only thing he can heat up in a few minutes without much hassle. The need for practicality robs him of tasty scrambled eggs with a side of sausage links and hash browns, or even a batch of fluffy pancakes topped with powdered sugar, but he’s learned to live with it.

He heats up the oatmeal, burns himself on the first bite, and waits a few minutes before shoveling the entire bowl of it into his mouth. Tossing the dish into the sink, he briskly picks up his messenger bag from the couch in the adjacent living room, and snatches up his keys from the coffee table on his way to the door. As he steps into the hallway, the neighbor’s door opens, and he bristles up in dreaded anticipation of that shameless bastard.

Pretending not to care, however, he pointedly faces his door and locks it, side-eyeing the man that strides out of his neighbor’s apartment. Strangely enough, it isn’t his neighbor, but instead a complete stranger whose face is obscured by an oversized hood. Sandalphon can’t make out any defining features save for a deep set frown and pale skin, paler than anyone he has seen before. He narrows his eyes; whoever this man is, he’s partly responsible for Sandalphon not getting any decent sleep last night. Therefore, based on that alone, Sandalphon doesn’t like him. Not one bit.

 _You’re on my shitlist, mystery asshole,_ Sandalphon thinks to himself as he watches the stranger disappear down the hall, hands shoved into his pockets. As if on cue, his actual neighbor pops his head out into the hall, and Sandalphon can’t stop a strangled noise of agitation from escaping him. “You,” he hisses.

“Me,” his neighbor chimes back, smirking from ear-to-ear. “Didja sleep well last night, Sandy?” A knowing grin splits his lips. He’s a fairly tall man with short, currently sex-mussed brown hair, and eyes the color of red wine. For whatever reason, Sandalphon rarely sees him with a shirt. It doesn’t surprise him, then, that the bastard currently has no shirt on, revealing the dark, purplish hickeys all over his chest and neck. Shameless.

“Absolutely,” Sandalphon mutters back sarcastically. “I slept like a little angel thanks to your lullaby last night, _Belial_.”

Belial laughs, slapping his hand against his own thigh. At least he had the decency to put on a pair of sweatpants today. Sandalphon would have killed him otherwise, successfully becoming both a criminal and a viral internet sensation for murdering his naked neighbor in broad daylight.

“It’s not my fault your bedroom’s right next to mine,” Belial coos. “You should try moving your bed, y’know.”

“You should try being more considerate of your neighbors, y’know,” Sandalphon snaps back.

Belial chuckles. “Nah. Where’s the fun in that?” He leans against the doorway and puts on the most devilish smirk in his arsenal of mischievous faces. “I can’t be a good boy like you, Sandy. It’s so _hard_ trying to please everybody when nobody cares about pleasing you.” He clicks his tongue and runs his fingers through his tangled hair. “You’ll know what I mean eventually. I can see it in your pretty little eyes that you won’t stay a good boy forever. You’re secretly tired of doing all the work, aren’t you? Always giving, never receiving.”

“Whatever. I gotta get to work. Bye.”

“I’m serious! Aren’t you tired of being nice? Don’t you just want to go apeshit?”

Sandalphon rolls his eyes and walks away, ignoring Belial’s laughter. Still, part of him has to admit that Belial has a point; he’s tired. Tired of playing nice to customers and pretending that he isn’t stressed out of his mind every day. He forgot his own birthday, a day meant to be special, but birthdays and every other holiday lost their touch several years ago. He can’t derive a single spark of joy from anything anymore, except maybe drawing. But even then he doesn’t have much time to draw, and when he does have time, he’s too burnt out to try.

What is that thing called again? Oh, right, depression. Not that he will ever admit that to _anyone_ , though—his stubborn pride refuses to allow it. The last thing he wants is to have his mother or even his siblings fuss over him if they are to find out. The last thing he wants is for anyone, he doesn’t care who, to perceive him as _weak_ or _fragile_.

Jogging down the several stairwells to the ground floor, he mentally prepares himself for the day that lies ahead. He checks his phone: 6:50 AM. His shift doesn’t start until 8—his manager always schedules him early to take inventory and open the store at 9:30—and the next bus is at 7:05. He’s not in a rush, thankfully. He can take the extra time to think, reflect a little, and hopefully calm down.

“You’ll be fine,” he mumbles to himself. “You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

Resolved, he walks outside and breathes in the spring air scented with the delicate aroma of grass and budding flowers. He stares out at the city lining the horizon, its buildings reaching toward the heavens and the shining sun. What’s it like, he wonders, to live up there? In a fancy penthouse, always wanting but never needing? He knows that money doesn’t buy happiness, but, damn, it sure helps. All he can do is envy those people, and wish he can somehow take their place.

A fool’s wish. He tears his head away and walks along the sidewalk, to the bus stop on the corner. He accepts the fact that this is all his life would ever be: bleak and unsatisfying, nothing worth living for.

At least he has his family. He’ll live for them—only them.

 

—

 

It’s Thursday morning, which means that not a lot of people are at the mall, wasting their money on things they don’t need but want because, hey, it’s on sale! The store is consequently rather empty, save for a few high schoolers playing hooky, and a couple of older women perusing the clearance section. If there’s one thing that Sandalphon knows for certain, it’s that everyone, regardless of age, sure loves the clearance section. He can’t say that he’s any different.

As he reorganizes a table of various graphic tees, Sandalphon hums to himself while eyeing the trio of high schoolers loitering in the corner. They’re not doing anything bad, just laughing and showing each other memes; he simply doesn’t like high schoolers, perhaps as a result of his siblings traumatizing him with their antics. All high schoolers, to him, are a menace. They’re masters at perpetrating drama and roasting people alive with their words.

He grimaces at the not so-fond-memories, just as an older woman carrying a bunch of clothes approaches him quietly. “Excuse me,” she pipes up.

He glances back at her. “How may I help you, ma’am?” he asks in his best customer service voice. If Gran or Djeeta ever hear him talk like that, they’ll accuse him of being a doppelganger that murdered their real brother and took his place.

“There’s no one at the register,” the woman replies.

Sandalphon waits for her to say more, but she doesn’t. The raised brow on her face, however, speaks volumes. “Oh, sorry about that. I’ll ring you up right now,” he says, feigning a smile as he walks with her to the register. She unceremoniously dumps all the clothes onto the counter and rummages through her purse for a stack of crumpled coupons. Watching her unsettles him, but he keeps smiling, trying not to think about the bad feeling working its way into his stomach.

He scans each item—all from clearance—and individually folds each piece to perfection. Laundry had been his chore back at home, so folding and organizing clothes comes naturally to him. Maybe that’s the reason his manager always has him show up so early, to ensure the store looks neat and spiffy before any customers come in. It makes sense in his head so he rolls with it.

“I have these coupons,” the woman says, thrusting the cluster toward him. “Can you tell me which ones stack? Just throw out the ones that don’t.”

 _You have eyes. I’m pretty sure you could’ve done the reading yourself,_ is what Sandalphon truly, dearly wants to say. “Sure,” is what he ends up saying instead, forced through a clenched jaw. He sifts through each coupon, reading one after the other, and realizes that none of them can be used on clearance items. It has to be a wholesale purchase.

Oh boy. He’s experienced enough of these incidents to know what’s coming next. “...I’m sorry, ma’am,” he begins, immediately noticing how the woman’s face falls into a grimace, “but none of these work on clearance items.”

“What do you mean none of them work on clearance items?” she questions.

“They’re for wholesale items only. It says so here.” A bit hesitant, he holds out one of the coupons and points to the fine print. “I’m sorry. You’re still able to use them until the 21st, though.”

“You mean _all_ of them are only for wholesale?” she continues, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff.

Sandalphon swallows thickly. “Yes. Our coupons generally don’t work on clearance. I’m sorry.” No, no he’s not. He just wants her to shut up and leave, even if it means losing a sale.

“Then why send out coupons at all!” she barks.

Sandalphon hesitates. “...For wholesale—”

“I wasn’t asking you!”

He clenches his fists against the counter, nails digging into his palms. “Ma’am, I really do apologize, but there’s nothing I can do about these coupons except give them back to you. As I said, they’re still usable until the 21st.”

The woman rolls her eyes and snatches the coupons from his hand. “Cancel the sale,” she demands.

“Of course, ma’am.” Thank god. She had her say, now she can finally leave him alone—

“People like you are so useless. No wonder you’re stuck working a job like this,” she drawls out, acid searing in her voice.

His hands still halfway through the cancellation. “...Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she hisses. “A good employee would have apologized for the waste of my time and offered me a discount anyway. All you did was piss me off even more and now I don’t have a birthday gift for my daughter.”

No, he can’t let her get to him. He can’t; she’s not worth the effort or possible loss of his job. _It’s not worth it,_ he tells himself, _just bear the brunt and get it over with._ He exhales deeply and says nothing, resuming the cancellation.

“What?” the woman interrogates. “Nothing smart to say?”

“I’m just trying to do my job, ma’am,” he replies in a low tone.

“And you’re doing a shit job at it.”

His hands curl into fists against the monitor. “Please don’t curse at me.”

“What? What are you going to do about it?”

Sandalphon grits his teeth. Suddenly, Belial’s words from the morning return, whispering their illicit temptation into his head. _Aren’t you tired of being nice? Don’t you just want to go apeshit?_ Yes. God, _yes_. He’s tired of being nice. He just wants to go absolutely apeshit without caring about the consequences. It’s his birthday, dammit, and he has the right to go feral.

He slams his hand onto the counter and stares the woman right in the eye. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it, _ma’am_ ,” he hisses. “I’m going to tell you to fuck off and go fuck yourself and your daughter. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you, or her, or anyone else for that matter. You think I like this job? You think I _want_ this job?” He snarls every word, indifferent to the horror on her face. “I fucking hate it with every fiber of my damn being, but _someone’s_ gotta be the stupid fucking idiot who takes the shit of entitled ass people like you.”

The woman balks. “You—you can’t talk to me like that—”

“I don’t give a _fuck_! The customer is always right, _my ass_! You’re all a bunch of idiots who think they can cheat their way out of paying a couple of extra dollars for some cheap fucking clothes.” Sandalphon picks up the neatly folded clothes and throws them onto the floor. “Fuck this! Fuck it! Fuck _you_!”

The woman stares at the clothes, then at him, and twists her mouth into a scowl. “...Bring your manager here right _now_.”

Well. There goes his job. Too bad he’s stopped caring by this point.

“Gladly,” he spits.

 

—

 

11:27 AM.

Sandalphon trudges into his apartment, slams the door shut behind him, and flings himself face down onto the couch. Fired. He got himself fired on his own birthday. “You absolute idiot,” he grumbles, voice muffled by the mint green cushions. “You absolute fucking idiot, what were you fucking thinking?”

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Now how is he supposed to pay bills, rent, food—everything. How is he supposed to do anything at all? He effectively fucked himself over all because he couldn’t control his own impulses. He wants to blame Belial for seeding the idea into his head in the first place, but it had been his own mouth that cursed out a customer, not Belial’s. He can’t blame his own mistake on someone else, despite how much he wants to hold Belial one-hundred percent accountable for it.

“I can’t tell Mom,” he mutters. “I just… Fuck.” He drags his hands down his face and groans, wishing to magically turn into a chronomancer so he can just reset the entire day. Too bad life doesn’t work like that. “Fuck me.”

Until he secures another job, he has to earn money another way. Fortunately for him, he’s not entirely out of options; the wonderful world of the internet is rich with potential clientele. Scrambling to grab his laptop from the coffee table, he props it open and digs through his files for his old commission flyers. They’re a bit outdated, but the few fanart pieces he managed so far this year highlighted his improvement quite nicely.

He updates the flyers with the new art, opens up all his social media accounts, and posts his dilemma without mentioning what had led to it. His customers don’t need to know _how_ he lost his job. Some things are just better left unsaid to strangers, especially if said strangers mean the difference between a place to stay or eviction. Besides, he had garnered a decent following over the past few years, and had received commissions while studying at university; certainly there’s a few people out there willing to commission him.

He’s doing all he can to see the brighter side of things. Even though, deep inside, he dwells in the uncertain dark of the future that awaits him.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers to himself. “You’ll be fine. Nothing’s wrong. Everything is—everything is—” He exhales shakily. “— _perfect_.” Rolling onto his side, he hugs a pillow close to his body and smothers his face into it, willing back the urge to cry. Frustration wells up inside of him the more he denies himself emotional relief, but he hates crying, hates it more than anything else. He won’t let anyone see him cry. Not even his own self, but none of that perseverance matters when he knows that the harder he fights the tears, the stronger they emerge.

A couple of knocks on the door startles him. Blinking away the burning tears, he sits up and glares at the door. Now, who could that be? Should he even bother answering it? What if it’s that bastard Belial come to mock him?

_Knock-knock!_

After a moment, he doubts it. Belial isn’t the type to knock as he is the type to bellow out that horrendous nickname at the top of his lungs just to get Sandalphon’s attention. Belial’s never knocked before, and there’s certainly no reason for him to start anytime soon. It must be someone else.

Sighing, Sandalphon removes himself from the couch and peeks through the door’s peephole. Standing there, in spandex shorts and an athletic tank top, is his across-the-hall neighbor and friend, Olivia. She’s the definition of elegance and power all wrapped up in one, her strawberry-blonde hair tied up into a carefully crafted bun and her muscled arms bare in all their glory.

She’s the closest thing Sandalphon has to a friend, along with her loud, impulsive roommate Azazel. A mutual love for video games first brought them together, and now, the three of them occasionally meet up at the bar to complain about life and drink their woes away. There’s never a dull moment around the two of them, but Sandalphon refuses to let either of them see him at his lowest.

Sandalphon props the door open by only an inch and peers at her face. “...Oh, hey. What’s up?” he asks in the most casual tone he can manage, as though he had _not_ been crying just a few seconds ago.

“Happy birthday!” Olivia chimes with a smile, clapping her hands together once. “I heard you come back early,” she continues, tilting her head and frowning a little as she attempts to get a better look at him, “so I thought I’d give you your birthday present before I head out for the gym.”

Sandalphon blinks. “Oh, thanks, but you really didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” Olivia laughs softly. “It’s just a little something. I know how much you like coffee so I thought you’d like to try out the cafe a couple of my friends work at.” She hands him an ivory and gold postcard with the words ‘Happy Birthday’ written in calligraphy on it. “It’s a free large drink of your choice. Specialty drinks included.”

Sandalphon tentatively takes the card and runs his fingers over it. For a lack of better words, it’s a gorgeous card: the paper is ivory with a slight aged parchment feel, and its edges are lined with a metallic gold floral design. At the top, an elegant font spells out the cafe’s name in a gold foil that catches the light: Garden of Eden.

Just holding it has Sandalphon wondering if he’s worthy of such refined elegance. “Huh. Thank you, I’ll check it out.” He pockets the card and makes to close the door, but Olivia prods it farther open with her foot and takes in his face: puffy red eyes, hanging eyebags, and a deep set frown.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed. “I know you’ve never been the overly excited type, but you seem...different than usual today.”

Flicking his gaze away from her stare, Sandalphon shakes his head. “I’m just tired. And my allergies are kicking my ass.”

A pause. The unnerving fear that she  doesn’t believe him worms its way into him as the silence lingers. He opens his mouth, ready to stuff his excuse full of more lies, but she interjects with a stinging question. “...Why _did_ you get off work so early?”

Oh, shit. He quickly shifts gears, rummaging for a plausible answer as his fingers nervously tap against the doorknob. “My manager—for my birthday—”

“You got fired, didn’t you?”

Sandalphon makes a strangled sound and drops his head against the wall with a soft _thud_. “...Yes. Read right through me, huh?”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Olivia huffs. “At least, around me. You know I know you too well.”

“I know.” Sighing, Sandalphon pushes himself off the wall and waves the card around. “Still, thank you for this. I mean that. Things are shitty right now but this will make up for it.”

Olivia offers a sympathetic frown. “Will you be alright on your own?”

“Yeah, I’ll manage,” Sandalphon replies with a quick nod. “I opened up commissions in the meantime.” Itching to end the conversation, his fingers curl against the side of the door, but he stands there, waiting to see if she has anything else to say. He doesn’t want to confront the problem, but he doesn’t want to be rude either; Olivia is the last person to deserve that.

Biting her lip, Olivia visibly hesitates on her next words. “...The Garden—” She stops. She chews on her nails, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed. Before he can ask, she forces the rest of her sentence out. “The Garden is hiring.”

“What?”

Olivia gestures toward the card sticking out from Sandalphon’s front pocket. “The Garden of Eden. Talk to Michael. She runs the place and I’m sure she could use another hand.”

Sandalphon mulls over her suggestion. A cafe…? It’s not exactly an undesirable place to work at. Coffee, pastries, relaxing music—he’s always been fond of the cafe ambience. It wouldn’t hurt to try...would it? “...I’ll think about it.” And then, as an afterthought, “Thank you. Again.”

“Anything for a friend.” Olivia smiles and pats Sandalphon’s shoulder. “You’ll get through this. I know you will. You’re the most tenacious and resilient being I’ve ever met.”

“Being?” Sandalphon chuckles. “Am I some eldritch creature now?”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “You know what I meant.”

“I know, I know.” Relaxing his shoulders a little, Sandalphon musters a genuine smile despite all the frustration lingering in his heart, and wills himself to meet her gaze. “Off to the gym now?”

“Mhm. I’ll see you around.”

“See you around.”

Sandalphon watches her go, her gait always poised and strong like the stride of a battle-hardened warrior. He can’t help but think she’s off to war every time he watches her do anything at all. It’s as if she’s expecting something to go wrong at any given moment, her eyes always scanning her surroundings, her posture always straight and attentive for the next course of action.

It’s a little bit strange, but it’s what makes her Olivia.

Closing the door, Sandalphon leans his back against it and stares up at the plain ceiling for the umpteenth time. Everything about his apartment is plain and dull. Simple and plain-colored objects furnish his room—the only splashes of color being the mint green couch and its matching rug—and the walls would be completely bare if not for his photography pasted here and there. He longs for the lively ambience of his childhood home, the different colored walls, the bright, playful furniture, the sound of his mother and siblings laughing from the living room.

He clutches at his chest, his heart throbbing with a painful loneliness. The tears flow against the dam of his fragile will, leaving hot trails down his cheeks, and the sobs force their way out from his tightening throat, filling the room with whimpers of someone he doesn’t recognize. He crumbles to his knees, hugging himself tight, and sobs until his throat is dry and his heart is numb.

It hurts.

 

—

 

By the time Sandalphon forces himself to catch a series of buses to his mother’s house across town, the sun’s already begun its slow descent from the sky. It hangs low on the horizon, dangling from heavenly strings as it imparts its final hours of light, and watches over the bustling life with its single gold eye. It refuses to set. Not yet, at least. Not yet. It still has so much more to see.

Hands shoved into his pockets, Sandalphon jogs up the porch steps and hesitates in front of the door. He normally ended his shifts at 5, and since it’s only a little past 6 at the moment, he’s certain his mother won’t suspect his self-induced unemployment. All he has to do is act normal. Too bad that’s always easier said than done.

Gathering up the courage, Sandalphon knocks once, but before he can knock again, the door swings open to reveal two smirking faces—Gran and Djeeta. “MOM!” Gran hollers while Djeeta yanks Sandalphon inside by his arm. “SANDALS IS HERE!”

“Can you _please_ stop calling me that?” Sandalphon grumbles.

“It’s either that or Phone,” Djeeta quips, dragging Sandalphon through the den and down the hall. “And since Mom won’t let us get new phones, you’ll be the replacement until she finally freaks out about not being able to text us when we go to college.”

Sandalphon scowls, but allows his body to be dragged around like a ragdoll. It’s not like he has any other choice. “That doesn’t make any sense. I can’t be your phone.”

“ _You_ don’t make any sense,” Gran retorts, taking up the rear as he shoves Sandalphon along.

“What—”

The twins unceremoniously hurl Sandalphon into the dining room, giggling as he stumbles to regain his footing. He braces himself on the table, glares at them, and opens his mouth to curse them out when his mother Katalina suddenly enters from the kitchen. “Ah, there you are!” she chimes, clapping her hands together. “Good. I was worried you’d get cajoled into working overtime again.”

Sandalphon worries his lip between his teeth. “...My manager let me go early for my birthday.” He clenches his fist against the table, hoping, _praying_ , that her motherly instincts don’t detect the blatant lie. Seeking a distraction, he lets his eyes scan the room, taking in the deep navy walls and the many framed photos of their family over the years.

“Oh, that’s nice of her,” Katalina muses as she crosses the room. “How was work anyway?”

“It was...good.”

“Liar.”

Sandalphon freezes, blood running cold as he prepares himself for her wrath.

Katalina, however, laughs. “You _hate_ your job. You always complain about how awful it is, so I doubt today was any different. Don’t try to fool me just because it’s your birthday and you’re trying to peppy about it.”

Right. Peppy. “...Uh, yeah.” Sandalphon forces out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, it was awful. Like always. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just quit.” He mentally slaps himself the moment the words leave his mouth.

“You should. There’s plenty of other jobs out there that’ll give you way more respect than retail,” Katalina says as she brushes off invisible dust from Sandalphon’s shoulders. She’s always fussing over him, like mothers do. “Anyway, close your eyes. It’s time for your present!” Her voice rises with excitement and it pains Sandalphon enough to almost make him cry.

She doesn’t deserve the amount of secrets he’s been keeping from her. The job loss, the constant frustration, the dissatisfaction with everything, the inability to get out of bed in the morning when he has nothing to do. He refuses to open up to her, despite his love for her and her love for him. He can’t let her see him fall apart at the seams, barely held together by threads that run too thin, too fragile.

Sighing, Sandalphon closes his eyes and allows Katalina to tug him along to the back porch, Gran and Djeeta in tow with whispered giggles. “Stay here,” Katalina says as she positions him on the first step. He hears her run down the wooden stairs and stands there, fists clenched at his sides as he continuously reminds himself to act normal. Biting the inside of his cheek, he focuses on the sound of Katalina opening the garage and dragging out something onto the pavement.

Wait, the garage? What kind of present did she—

“Open your eyes!” his mother and siblings cry out in unison.

Sandalphon opens his eyes. There, adorned with a huge birthday bow, is a sleek, cherry red motorcycle exactly like the one he had fantasized about having during high school. He had even gotten his motorcyclist license for it, but never had the money to actually purchase the thing. But now here it is, in front of him, shiny and chrome with a matching helmet. His knees immediately give out underneath him, prompting Gran and Djeeta to hold him up on either side as he takes in the sight of his gift.

“You—that—” Sandalphon chokes on his words, struck speechless by disbelief. “The— _hhn_ —”

“Now you don’t have to catch the bus anymore,” Katalina says with a clap of her hands. “It’s fully paid off too! All you have to worry about is gas.”

Sandalphon still can’t find the words. “Hhh—pbbt—mma—”

“Wow,” Djeeta coos. “Instead of twenty-three, he became a toddler again. Talk about a regression.”

Gran pats Sandalphon’s head and, after a bit of thought, ruffles his hair all over the place. “I guess that makes you the baby brother now.”

The words come back. “Shut up,” Sandalphon grumbles, shoving himself off the giggling twins. Regaining control of his legs, he hops down the stairs and  bolts over to Katalina. He doesn’t say anything at first, he simply throws his arms around her and heaves her up into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he mutters a bit breathlessly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much.”

Katalina returns the embrace with equal enthusiasm, burying her face into his hair with a smile. “...I’m so proud of you.”

His eyes widen, his heart shatters, his entire world crumbles into ash. Those words, spoken with the sincerest love, do nothing but carve the cold sting of guilt into his already brittle body. His self-loathing grows, reaching deep into his body, ensnaring him tighter in a trap of his own design. He can’t bring himself to look her in the eye anymore.

He’s terrified she’ll see right through him.

Instead, he sets her down, and releases her to lay his hand onto the handle of the bike. “...This must be a dream.”

But it isn’t. It’s all too real.

 

—

 

Sandalphon leaves after dinner, having spent the entirety of it staring at his food or the wall behind Katalina. He hopes she didn’t notice. He’s not sure what he would say if she were to ask him about it.

As the heavenly strings lower the sun below the horizon, dawn darkening to the subtlest hints of dusk, Sandalphon rides his new motorcycle to the address on the back of the elegant postcard. It’s not too far from his apartment, he realizes, and the online reviews boasted nothing but praise for both the menu and service. Although he mostly brews and drinks his own coffee at home, he doesn’t mind indulging himself with a cafe specialty—money permitting, that is.

This coffee, however, is free. He’d be a fool to turn away from that offer.

Finding an open parking space right in front of the cafe, he seamlessly drives into the space and gazes up at the establishment’s facade through the visor of his helmet.

It’s a quaint, homely place, with an outdoor patio out front, colorful potted plants hanging from the white fence, and large latticed windows bearing GARDEN OF EDEN in a lacquer gold. Pots of budding magnolias hang above each of the two front windows, their pale pink petals curled in tight in the cool spring breeze. The door is a coffee brown color with square windows, and in front of it, a chalkboard sign sits with the store hours and daily specials.

“Nice place,” Sandalphon mumbles to himself. Turning off the ignition, he hops off the bike and pulls out the postcard as he approaches the door. A little bell rings when he opens it, and a woman with pastel pink hair pulled up into a ponytail peeks up from behind the counter to greet him with a cheery smile.

“Welcome!” Her voice is sugary sweet, yet somewhat sensual in a nurturing way. Sandalphon swears he’s heard a voice like that before, but he can’t quite put his finger on it as he files into the gathered line.

There’s only three people in front of him, the first of them already being attended to by the cashier. Cafes aren’t usually busy during the evening, but he can just imagine the horde of people in the morning rush hour—all dead inside until they have their first sip of caffeine for the day. He knows, just as much as the next person, that there’s nothing more revitalizing than a well-brewed coffee fresh in the morning.

Coffee, however, is more than just a means of waking up for Sandalphon. It’s something special in his life, a way for him to relax in the brewing and drinking of it. Whenever his body tenses with the strain of too much stress, he brews himself a fresh pot of coffee, immersing himself in the rich aroma and listening to the slow, steady drip that never fails to calm his nerves. And when he drinks it, he’s overcome with a wave of pure, utter bliss, allowing him to forget his troubles even if just for a moment.

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why brewing coffee comes so naturally to him, so deeply familiar, as if he’s been practicing the movement and rhythm his entire life. He doesn’t know why drinking coffee alone soothes him, but sharing a cup with someone else invokes painful throbs of longing in his heart.

Ever since the first time he cried after drinking his own coffee with his mother, Sandalphon vowed to never share a cup with anyone else ever again.

As he waits in line, he tugs off his helmet and inspects the interior, too immersed in the new sights and smells to hear the pink-haired woman gasp.

The walls are cream in color, decorated with floral paintings and plastic ivy vines pinned to the ceiling’s wooden trim, and the floor is a smooth mahogany finish. Mocha brown tables with matching chairs, booths with plush cinnamon cushions, round lamps with bird carvings, potted plants here and there to add color—it’s truly like a garden. Not to mention the smell, the delicious scent of fresh coffee and pastries weaving together into one heavenly aroma. It’s...serene. A paradise.

Sandalphon steps up to the marble-finish counter when the last of the three other customers finishes placing their order, but just as he’s about to ask what the cashier recommends, their eyes meet and the words die in his throat.

Sky blue eyes, hair as white as snow, and a face so handsome Sandalphon loses the ability to think. He stands there, dumbfounded by one man’s beauty, and simply stares like a fool at this complete stranger whose name he doesn’t even know. One quick glance at the name tag pinned to the cashier’s green apron, however, tells Sandalphon that his name is Lucifer.

And Lucifer—well, Lucifer can’t stop staring at Sandalphon either. But, he’s less mystified than he is shocked, his expression caught in a battle between relief and sheer horror. It’s odd. They’ve never met before, and yet, Lucifer looks as though he’s known Sandalphon his entire life.

Then Lucifer opens his mouth and whispers two little words, spoken with the breathless wonder of someone who has found what they had thought to be lost forever.

“It’s you.”


	2. within dawn and dusk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, after 8 long months I finally did it, I finally updated this fic with another long chapter!
> 
> long story short: I had quite the on-and-off battle with depression and other personal life issues, hence the extreme delay and, if you follow me on my gbf twitter, unannounced hiatus. rest assured, I'm alright and healthy. nothing major of the sort happened and I've been working to bettering myself these past couple of months. shout out to my friends for being supportive every step of the way, I love you guys.
> 
> I'm glad to be writing again, and I'd like to thank everyone who has left a comment so far; a few days ago, I went back and read all your comments and that gave me the push I needed to work on this fic again.
> 
> so, that's enough from me for now. I hope you enjoy this chapter, I had tons of fun writing it.
> 
> p.s. I have not proofread (yet) because I am an impatient fool who wanted to post this right away
> 
> GBF Twitter: [@ecliptica000](https://twitter.com/ecliptica000)

“ _What_? What are you talking about?”

Sandalphon replies before he can think, his brain never quite catching up with his mouth. He regrets the words the moment he voices them, but how else can he reply to a greeting like _that_ , from a man he has never met before, but whose face looks like _that_? Lucifer is beyond the definition of gorgeous, his eyes a perfect sky blue and shaped with gentle curves, downturned ever so slightly at the corners. He boasts a strong jaw with smooth lines, softening his complexion, and the feathered tips of his hair add to his serene, almost angelic image. There is _nothing_ unattractive about this man.

Sandalphon wishes they _had_ met before. He wishes they had met before so his heart wouldn’t be pounding in his chest like it is right now. But, who knows? They could’ve met a thousand times in a thousand lifetimes ago, and yet the words would still be stolen from Sandalphon’s lips every time he looked at this complete, utter stranger.

Tension visible in his shoulders, Lucifer flicks his gaze to stare at the register’s monitor and fumbles his response. “Oh—pardon me, I—it’s just, it’s just that I know you. At least, at least I have heard of you, from—from Olivia. She is a friend of mine.”

First of all, what the hell did Olivia say about him? Second of all, oh god, that _voice_.

“What did she say?” Sandalphon questions in a calm tone, both for Lucifer’s sake and to hide the fact that Sandalphon’s heart just keeps beating faster and faster. There’s something indescribably lovely, sensual even, about Lucifer’s voice—tender in all the right syllables, elegant in all the right words as they roll from his lips. His voice is music even when he’s stumbling over what to say.

“Oh, um, she speaks fondly of you as a friend would. Nothing bad, I assure you. She…” A pause. “...She also mentioned that you might be coming by today or tomorrow.” Lucifer pauses again, his gaze lingering on the monitor. After a deep breath, he lifts his head to look at Sandalphon and musters a small smile. His eyes seemingly glow, and if Sandalphon didn’t know any better, he’d think they were emitting a faint ray of light. “And here you are today.”

Sandalphon nods slowly, his cheeks warm and pink. “...Here I am,” he replies with an unusual fondness in his tone. God, how is he like this already, all soft and mushy for someone he doesn’t even know? His cheeks burn red, his heart pounding even harder in his chest, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to not break the intimate stare between them. Sure, he’s flustering himself even more by not looking away, but how _can_ he look away from those serene eyes?

“Yes…,” Lucifer mumbles, just as equally transfixed on Sandalphon as Sandalphon is on him. As the moments tick by, Lucifer’s eyes soften and his smile fades a little at the corners. He looks as though he’s remembering something bittersweet, something distant yet so powerfully evocative that Sandalphon’s own heart aches sharp and deep. Sandalphon, however, has no idea why Lucifer insists on looking at him like that, with such a pained yet tender expression.

Still… He doesn’t dislike it.

There’s a long, awkward silence between the two of them, further exacerbated by the pink-haired woman staring at them from the other end of the counter. Another woman with feathery, blonde hair exits the backroom and stops in place upon noticing Sandalphon, but before she can say anything, the pink-haired woman slaps her hand over her mouth. The two of them grapple for a while, muffled sounds escaping the blonde, but the pink-haired woman succeeds by dragging her companion into the backroom with a slam of the door.

It’s the slam that startles both Sandalphon and Lucifer back into reality. Another barista lets out an amused snort as he prepares four drinks at once, observing the situation from the corner of his eyes.

“Ah, right, w-what may I help you with today?” Lucifer asks with a breathless chuckle.

Cheeks still pink, Sandalphon holds up the card and stares at the gold print on it, trying to distract himself from how alluring Lucifer sounds all breathless. “Olivia gave this to me, but I… I’ve never been here so I don’t know what’s good. I was, I was going to ask if you’d recommend me something.”

“Oh.” Lucifer smiles warmly. “I see. Yes, I would be happy to recommend you one of our finest drinks. Do tell me, do you have any preferences?”

Sandalphon gives a small shrug. “Not really... I like pretty much everything when it comes to coffee.”

Lucifer nods his head, and somehow, his smile radiates even more warmth than before. “Of course,” he replies. “I have just the thing in mind then. Please do excuse me for a moment.” With that, Lucifer briskly strides away from the counter and into the backroom with a light _click_ of the door. Sandalphon watches him go, a bit confused, but grateful for the chance for his heart to calm down.

 _Odd guy…,_ Sandalphon thinks to himself as he sighs deeply.

But, despite how eccentric this Lucifer guy seems, Sandalphon can’t deny his attraction to him. He’s not at all put off by Lucifer’s odd behavior; if anything, he’s rather endeared by it, quirks and all. It assures Sandalphon that Lucifer, with his good looks and sensual voice, is just as human as he is. He’s not some unattainable ideal—a one-sided, purely superficial attraction. He’s a person, nothing more, nothing less, someone that Sandalphon would love to get to know better.

Too bad Sandalphon won’t give himself that chance. Simply put, he’s terrified of attachment, of opening up his heart raw and vulnerable for someone else to see. What if it scares them off? What if his heart is so ruined, so grotesque in the destruction of itself, that no one will ever want to hold what remains of it? He wouldn’t blame them. He’s hesitant to even show his heart to himself. Why, then, would he show it to someone else, be they a friend or stranger?

Why would anyone waste their time on him when he’s barely hanging from the threads of a menial existence?

A frown tugs at Sandalphon’s lips, and his eyebrows narrow in disgust of himself. Maybe… Maybe it would be better if he just left. There’s no point in lingering around when he knows he’ll wind up longing for something he’ll never allow himself to have. Lucifer doesn’t deserve to be desired by someone as insignificant and useless as him.

...Ah. Sandalphon pales at his own realization. Does he… Does he like Lucifer? Despite only having just met him? He internally rebukes himself for being such a fool, his frustration manifesting in the clenching of his fists. _Idiot, stupid idiot._ He bites his lip a little too hard; the bitter taste of iron drops onto his tongue. _How desperate are you to be crushing on the first cute guy you see? Fucking pathetic._

“...You intimidate him.”

Wait—what? Who?

Glancing up in the midst of his self-loathing, Sandalphon finds himself facing the barista with the long, onyx black hair. He’s a dark-skinned man, tall and well-built, and the speed with which he works almost looks as though he has four arms. Sandalphon blinks at him. “What?”

“You intimidate him,” the man repeats, nodding his head toward the backroom. “He is not the type to be so easily distracted, yet one look at you shattered his otherwise immaculate composure.”

...Well then. This guy sure talks like he walked straight out of a medieval fantasy novel chock full of gods and dragons. Sandalphon quickly reads his nametag: Shiva. Hm, it’s a nice name with a nice ring to it, if not a little unusual... Then again, it’s not like Sandalphon’s own name is particularly normal. Who names their kid Sandalphon…? 

Apparently, his birth parents do. Whoever they are.

“Me? I intimidate _him_?” Sandalphon questions. “It’s the other way around—wait no, I mean, there’s nothing intimidating about me.”

“Well, I suppose ‘intimidate’ is not the correct word. Rather, you make him nervous and uncertain of himself,” Shiva replies.

Sandalphon chuckles dryly. Yeah, right. He’ll believe that in a thousand years. “I’m just a customer, and we’ve only just met.”

“So you believe.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Shiva falls silent with a firm press of his lips, but before Sandalphon can press him to elaborate, the backroom door opens and Lucifer walks out. Empty-handed. Huh. Hadn’t he left to gather ingredients? To further add onto Sandalphon’s confusion, the two women from before follow Lucifer out of the room with an exchange of whispers. They both glance at Sandalphon, pause, and exchange wary looks.

_Why is everyone in this cafe so weird…?_

His confusion is left unresolved when Lucifer merely smiles at him and proceeds to prepare the drink. Sandalphon watches him closely, mesmerized by the well-practiced movement of Lucifer’s hands, but is shortly distracted by the pink-haired woman approaching him with a gentle, motherly smile.

“Hello, and welcome,” she greets. “Feel free to have a seat as you wait for your drink.” She gestures to the open tables, and that’s when Sandalphon realizes he’s still standing at the front of the line. There’s no one behind him, but he can only imagine how silly he must look just standing there and staring.

“Right, right, thank you, sorry,” he mumbles as he quickly excuses himself away. He finds a two-person table closest to the counter and sits down, setting the card onto the polished surface with a sigh. What is he doing…? He doesn’t even know anymore. Leave it to him to have his entire world shaken and turned upside down by one man—a man he has never even met before.

He props his elbows onto the table and buries his face into his hands. “You idiot,” he mutters to himself, low enough so no one else can hear him. “Fucking… Dumbass.” He almost doesn’t notice the blonde woman walking toward him, her head held high above the rest.

“You there,” she calls out, nearly startling him out of his chair. “I’m Michael, the manager. I’ve heard a lot about you from Olivia.”

Sandalphon slowly meets her firm, penetrating gaze. She reminds him of Olivia, especially with the way she carries herself, proud and vigilant. “You’re a friend of hers too, huh?” he asks with only the slightest bit of disbelief. Why was Olivia going around talking about him to people he didn’t even know? He jots a mental note to chew her out next time he sees her.

“Yes, you could say that,” Michael answers. She hands him a sheet of paper; well, more like she thrusts it right into his face. It’s a flyer about an open position, detailing the hours and pay as well as employee benefits. Oh, right. Olivia had mentioned this. “Here. We’re hiring. She mentioned that you’re quite knowledgeable and passionate about coffee and its various forms, so I’d be a brazen fool to turn away from potential talent.”

_...Brazen fool? What? What year is this?_

He eyes the paper, then slowly shifts his attention to Michael. “...You’re offering me a job…?” he questions a little tentatively, brows raised in surprise. Never in all his life did he expect to be handed a job on a silver platter, much less from someone who only knows him by name. So _this_ must the elusive world of networking his university classes had always spouted off about.

“Yes,” Michael answers, straight to the point. “You are welcome to decline. The decision is ultimately yours, but I do strongly advise you consider it thoroughly. From what Olivia has told me about you, you’d make a wonderful, worthy addition to our team.” She delivers each word with no short amount of resolve, confident in her appraisal of Sandalphon’s abilities despite knowing next to nothing about him.

He blinks. To say he’s baffled would be a complete understatement. “Um, thanks.” A bit hesitant, he accepts the paper and stares at it. “I... I’ll think about it.”

“Very well.” Satisfied, Michael walks away without another word, leaving Sandalphon to scratch his head.

Did that...really just happen? He pinches himself; yep, it did. That really did just happen, but before he has the chance to dwell on it, who else but _Lucifer_ calls out his name in that heavenly voice of his. Sandalphon looks up a little too eagerly, like a puppy excited to see its favorite person, and spots Lucifer walking toward him with a drink and a tender smile.

Oh boy. Sandalphon’s heart leaps into his throat and threatens to choke him on the spot. He bites the inside of his cheek in an attempt to reel himself in, and welcomes Lucifer’s with a casual, polite smile. It’s just courtesy, he tells himself. Those soft smiles, that sweet voice… It’s all simply courtesy.

“Here’s your special drink. I call it Little Sparrow—it’s a cinnamon mocha latte with a honey drizzle and whipped cream,” Lucifer says, his voice curling softly around each and every word. Goodness, his voice is heaven itself. “Sorry for the wait.”

“It’s no problem,” Sandalphon assures him, reaching out for the drink at the same time Lucifer moves to hand it to him. Their fingers brush against each other and their eyes lock in place. They stay like that, caught in a moment so cliche Sandalphon would have laughed, if not for his heart beating so loudly he swears Lucifer can hear it. A wave of heat washes over Sandalphon’s face and it takes all his strength to finally look away.

“T-thanks,” he mumbles, setting the cup down before his trembling hand can drop it. He shakily picks up the birthday card and hands it to Lucifer, praying that their hands somehow do and don’t touch again. “Uh, here you go, since I redeemed it.”

Lucifer shakes his head. “Ah, no, you’re welcome to keep it. The design for our birthday promotion changes annually, so our regulars have gotten into the hobby of collecting them. Though, I can still throw it out for you, if you don’t wish to keep it.”

“Oh, well, if that’s the case, I’ll keep it,” Sandalphon answers. Well, at least that spares him from the possibility of brushing fingers with Lucifer again. “It’s a pretty design. I’ve never seen a shop dedicate so much detail to little things like this…”

“Birthdays are special days, each one more sacred than the last. Our customers are far more than just customers to us, so we wish to celebrate alongside them, even through simple means,” Lucifer explains with a calm, ever so peaceful expression on his face. “Some believe that birthdays symbolize the rebirth of oneself… A chance to renew ourselves and become better than who we were the year before—ah.” He stops himself with a soft chuckle. “I’m rambling again, sorry. This is barely your first time here and yet I’ve already gone philosophical on you…”

“N-no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Sandalphon gives him a reassuring smile, not at all bothered. If anything, he finds Lucifer’s perception of birthdays intriguing, especially considering how much of a contrast it is to Sandalphon’s own cynical view. To consider birthdays sacred, or better yet, a symbol of rebirth… Sandalphon can’t wrap his mind around it. He lives every year the same as the last: barely scraping by while performing the bare minimum, never amounting to anything worthwhile.

All his dreams and aspirations… He locked them away years ago, promising to himself that he’d never be good enough to achieve any of them, so why bother? Why bother wasting his time and energy on baseless whims?

There’s no point in celebrating his birthday when it only serves to remind him that he’s done nothing in all these years. Nothing, nothing at all. Not even his degree means anything to him; it can’t even land him a stable job.

But in response to Lucifer’s optimistic, if not a bit whimsical, perception of one insignificant little day, Sandalphon maintains his smile. At least it’s a genuine smile. He’d never give Lucifer anything but a genuine smile. There’s just something about this man… Something so calming and serene and flowing with an unconditional love that Sandalphon forgets his own self-hatred for a while.

Only for a while.

“...I should get going,” Sandalphon forces out the words with a rueful sigh. “It’s getting late and I think you guys are closing up in a bit, right?”

Lucifer perks up, the realization hitting him. “Oh, right! Right, I should be helping with that actually… Well, I won’t keep you then. Please have a safe trip home.” Concern softens his eyes, and Sandalphon decides, of his own accord, that he’s not worthy of that gaze.

“Yeah, thanks.” Standing up, Sandalphon folds the poster into a neat little square and pockets it along with the card. He picks up the coffee and makes to leave, but before he can even take two steps, Lucifer stops him with a single, innocent question.

“Perhaps we’ll see you again?”

Sandalphon turns to face him, ruminating over Lucifer’s question with a press of his lips. Well, he _did_ just get offered a job here… And he enjoys the look and ambience of the place—peaceful, calm, an escape from the otherwise stressful life he’s lived. Perhaps he can even start anew here. A new chance. A new life.

“...Yeah,” he replies after a moment. “Yeah, you’ll see me again.”

Lucifer smiles, and the light of the setting sun seems to wrap around him. “Then I’ll be looking forward to your next visit, Sandalphon.”

 _Oh_. That’s the softest someone has _ever_ spoken Sandalphon’s name. He doesn’t know what to do except return the smile, and force his legs to move before he ends up pining for this man even more than he already does.

As he exits the cafe, Sandalphon takes a sip of the coffee, and freezes on the spot. The taste...is divine yet delicate, dancing across his tongue in a tango of sweet and robust flavors. The gentle sweetness of the honey and the strong richness of the mocha blend well with the cinnamon’s prominent spice… It’s heaven.

Tears run down his cheeks and there is nothing he can do to stop them.

 

—

 

Sandalphon returns to his apartment in silence, empty cup of coffee in hand as he fumbles around in his bag for his keys. What an eventful day. He’s more than ready to throw himself into bed and sleep for a good twelve hours, maybe a thousand years, anything to forget about everything even for just a moment. A break. That’s all he needs. A long break to do absolutely _nothing_.

As he pulls out his keys, the door behind him clicks open. Next thing he knows, he’s grappled into a tight, suffocating hug, nearly squeezing the breath out of his lungs before he even has the chance to register what’s happening. He drops his keys and empty cup, hands flying to grip onto the arms around his chest and neck. Now who the hell would have the gall to attack him in the middle of the damn hall— 

“Well, if it ain’t the birthday boy himself!!” a rowdy voice shouts into his ear. “Happy birthday, you little shit!” Oh. Of course. He should’ve expected this.

“A—za—zel…!” Sandalphon wheezes out, writhing in Azazel’s grip in a vain attempt to shake him off. “Can’t…! Breathe…!”

Azazel, much to Sandalphon’s dismay, laughs and tightens his grip. “C’mon, fight me off! I know you can do better than that!”

“Hrk…!”

“Azazel. Put him down, you’re killing him. I can hear him suffocating from all the way here,” Olivia calls out from inside the apartment. She appears within the doorway shortly after, an amused smile on her lips as she leans against the frame. Well, so much for her coming to Sandalphon’s rescue.

“C’mon, Liv, let him struggle for a bit, eh? He needs to learn self-defense, and _I_ need someone to fight.” Grinning from ear-to-ear, Azazel jostles Sandalphon around, only to be met with another choked wheeze. “Oi, where’s your fighting spirit, huh? I’ll never forget all the times you kicked my ass in Smash, fucko, so c’mon, buck up and show me something good.”

“Dumbass!” Sandalphon coughs, slapping and scratching at Azazel’s arms, all instincts roaring to break out of this idiot’s grip _somehow_.

While Sandalphon flounders about like a fish yanked out of the water, Olivia’s eyes hone in on the coffee cup lying still on the ground. She walks over to pick it up and runs her fingers over the name printed on the cardboard sleeve. “So you ended up going to the Garden of Eden after all, huh,” she muses.

At the sound of that, Azazel drops Sandalphon a little too abruptly, letting him hit the floor with a loud, resounding _thud_. Sandalphon sputters on the floor and weakly smacks Azazel’s legs, scrambling to push himself up. “You… Absolute dumbass…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Why’d you just fucking drop me like that!?”

Azazel shoots him a look. “You went to the _Garden of Eden_?”

“...Uh, yeah? What’s so surprising about that?” Sandalphon questions with a cocked brow. “Is it a crime to get a free cup of coffee?”

Before Azazel has a chance to open his mouth, Olivia speaks up. “Don’t mind him, he just has a poor opinion of the Garden, that’s it. Says it’s too bourgeois for his tastes.” She looks over at her roommate currently staring at her, but Sandalphon is too busy crawling on the floor for his keys to notice the glare that hardens her face. “Isn’t that right, Azazel?”

“...Yeah,” Azazel huffs. “Too many...rich people.”

“Rich people?” Sandalphon pockets his keys as he rises to his feet, wobbling a little on his legs. “It looked like an average, middle-class type of thing to me.”

“Still rich people,” Azazel scoffs. He gestures to the open door of the apartment and then to the rest of the plain, white hallway. “At least compared to us. Me, a college dropout with no job, and you, a college graduate with no job, and, of course, _Olivia_ , a therapist with a six-figure paycheck.” The way he drawls out her name drips sarcasm all over the floor, enough to burn a hole through the hardwood.

Olivia smiles. “Well, _someone_ has to pay the rent, and the bills, and the twenty-something subscription services you insist on buying for all your video games and binge watching obsessions… Need I go on?”

“Quick question,” Sandalphon pipes up.

“Yes?”

“Yeah, why the fuck?”

Olivia shrugs and taps a finger against her lips. “Azazel’s like a brother to me. An annoying, loud brother who eats all the food in the fridge in a single night, but a brother nonetheless. We’ve done everything together.”

Sandalphon clicks his tongue. “Oh, right. You grew up together.”

“Yeah. I guess I can’t imagine not having him as my partner-in-crime, even with all his vices.” She flashes Azazel a wink. “I’m sure he feels the same way about me.”

“Whatever. I’m going to drink all your booze.” With a dismissive wave, Azazel shoves his hands into his pockets and walks back into the apartment.

Olivia laughs softly, then turns to Sandalphon with a small smile. “Hey, why not stay over and have a couple of drinks? It’s your birthday, we should celebrate.”

“I don’t know…,” Sandalphon mumbles.

“I bought martini mix.”

“Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

Chuckling, Olivia throws her arm around Sandalphon’s shoulders and tugs him into the apartment. Azazel slouches on the couch in front of the widescreen TV, his legs spread obnoxiously wide, not looking up from whatever gruesome game he’s playing at the moment. “Fuck. This guy hits like a fucking truck.”

Olivia lets Sandalphon go and strides into the nearby kitchen. “Azazel, do you want a martini?”

“No. I want vodka and I want it to hurt.”

“Suit yourself.”

While Olivia prepares the drinks, Sandalphon plops himself onto the spot beside Azazel and quirks his lips. “You _still_ haven’t killed the Cleric Beast? God, you suck.”

“Shut up. I bet you suck too,” Azazel snaps back.

“I beat the game. _Twice_.”

Azazel rolls his eyes, ignoring the smirk plastered on Sandalphon’s face. “Well, congrat-u-fucking-lations, you’re a true gamer now. Go sell your bathwater to creeps online.”

“Isn’t that what e-girls do?”

“Does it look like I know shit, much less give a damn?”

Sandalphon laughs. “No, but now that you mention it, becoming an e-girl doesn’t sound so bad… Those girls make bank. I could get rich.”

“There’s one problem with that, though.”

“Hm?”

“You’re not a girl, dumbass.”

“I don’t need to be. E-boys are also a thing, dumbass.” Sandalphon points to his own shoe. “And there is no gender for feet pics.”

Azazel groans. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up right now. I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t shut your mouth.”

But Sandalphon, smirking proudly, only laughs. “I’m messing with you, idiot. I’m not selling feet pics.”

“What’s this about feet pics?” Olivia asks, entering the room while balancing three drinks on a tray. “Fun story: I actually had a guy comment on my Instagram asking if I sold feet pics.”

Sandalphon’s smirk quickly morphs into a look of horror. “You’re kidding me.”

“She’s not,” Azazel grumbles, staring daggers as he watches his character die for the hundredth time. “I remember.”

Olivia sets the tray onto the coffee table and settles in next to Sandalphon. “I never blocked someone so fast.” She grabs her drink, but as she raises it to her lips, she stops halfway and lightly elbows Sandalphon. “Speaking of money, did you look into getting a job at the Garden?”

Sandalphon blinks. “Oh, right. That.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded out flyer. “The manager actually straight up offered me a position because you told her about me.” He stops, frowning a little. “Which reminds me—why are you going around talking shit to people I don’t even know?”

“I wasn’t talking _shit_ ,” Olivia says matter-of-factly.

“But you were talking _something_.” He accusingly points the flyer at her. “Do you have a crush on me or something?”

Azazel chokes on air, dropping the controller as he bursts into the loudest, most hysterical laughter known to mankind. Olivia, meanwhile, stares at Sandalphon, clearly not amused.

“...Bad joke, I know,” Sandalphon says, holding up his hands defensively.

Olivia sips her martini, sparing him for now. “I only brought you up _once_ when I first visited the Garden last year. One of those, oh, I have a friend who loves this stuff, kind of moments. Michael must’ve committed that to memory for some reason.” She angles her head to throw a glare at Azazel, who hasn’t stopped laughing. “Azazel. Shut up. It’s not that funny.”

Azazel wheezes. “No, it’s fucking _hilarious_.”

“...Anyway,” Olivia continues with a roll of her eyes, “I mentioned you again to Lucifer when I went to get that birthday coupon for you.”

Azazel suddenly falls dead silent. He picks up his controller and resumes the game, keeping to himself.

“Huh.” Sandalphon clicks his tongue and leans back. “Alright, that makes sense.”

“What? Were you worried about your precious bad boy reputation?” she jokes, lightly poking his forehead.

He sputters. “No, I just found it odd.”

“Well, I got you a job, didn’t I?”

“You got me an _offer_. I haven’t accepted it.”

“Accept it,” Azazel speaks up out of the blue. “You need money, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah…” Sandalphon twiddles his thumbs and clears his throat. “But, there’s a problem…”

Azazel raises a brow. “A problem?”

“What kind of problem?” Olivia presses on.

“Well, you see… It has to do with… Um… Uh...” Sandalphon scratches the back of his neck, face warm with embarrassment. “...Lucifer.”

Olivia blinks. “What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything! Okay, maybe that’s not true, he did do something, and he’s still doing it,” Sandalphon babbles, losing his train of thought the more his mind conjures Lucifer’s handsome face up. Those blue eyes… That white hair… The gentle voice saying his name oh so softly… “He’s doing something unforgivable.”

“Which is...?”

“Exist.”

Azazel gives Sandalphon an incredulous look, face scrunched up. “Exist? The fuck do you m—”

“You have a crush on him,” Olivia interjects without even thinking about it, prompting Sandalphon to bury his face into his hands. “I hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?”

“You more than hit it—you hammered it straight through the fucking wood,” Sandalphon groans, slouching his body forward, defeated.

“Oh boy. Come on, drink your martini. You need it.”

Azazel huffs, furrowing his brows at Sandalphon’s dramatic display. “It’s just a crush.”

“Yeah, but have you met Sandalphon?” Setting her drink down, Olivia forces Sandalphon to sit up and gestures to him. “Do you really think this guy has the ability to handle a crush with his emotionally constipated ass? And on Lucifer, of all people? We’re watching the start of a disaster, Azazel. You better say your prayers now.”

“You act like this is going to kill me,” Sandalphon mumbles.

“You mean it hasn’t already?”

Sandalphon says nothing. Instead, he lunges forward for his martini and nearly downs the entire thing in one gulp. Olivia whistles low.

“But, jokes aside,” she continues, “you seriously have a crush on a guy you only just met?”

“I know! I don’t get it either! I looked at him _once_ and I was a fucking goner.” Sandalphon looks at his nearly empty glass. “Give me another martini, please, I’m begging you.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Horrible. I want to eat rocks.”

“There’s rocks outside. Go eat those,” Azazel says.

Sandalphon looks at him. “Thank you, Azazel. You’re such a _great_ help in my time of need.”

“Anytime. Hey, maybe you should show him pictures of your f—”

Sandalphon all but screams. “NO!”

“ _Revenge,_ fucker _.”_

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Oh? Are you challenging me?” Azazel flashes him a grin. “Is that it? Wanna get your ass beat?”

“I think _you_ want to get your ass beat,” Sandalphon spits.

Azazel’s eyes darken, filled to the rim with bloodlust. “Olivia. Get the Switch.”

 

—

 

Perhaps Sandalphon shouldn’t have asked for the second martini. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or the fifth. _God_. He’s never woken up in such excruciating pain and discomfort before, but there he is now, slowly regaining consciousness to find himself sprawled on the hardwood floor of Olivia and Azazel’s apartment.

What the hell happened last night?

Blinking away the bleariness, he drags himself up into a sitting position and inspects his surroundings; there’s empty chip bags scattered around the place, along with a couple of crushed beer cans and a bottle of vodka under the table. “Fuck…” He rubs his temples, wincing at the throbbing pain of his hangover-induced headache.

What a mess. The worst part is he doesn’t even remember how it happened.

He glances over to find Azazel passed out on the couch, snoring and drooling all over the cushion, while Olivia is tucked into the corner beside his legs, curled up into a tight little ball. They both look awful.

“Hey, you guys… You still alive?” Sandalphon calls out in a dry voice. Damn, he needs water. The taste in his mouth is absolutely atrocious.

Azazel groans in reply, and Olivia only curls in tighter on herself. Well, at least they’re still alive, that’s all that matters. Sighing, Sandalphon pushes himself onto his feet and fumbles around in the dim light, obscured by the closed blinds, for his belongings. He finds his bag, tosses it on, and makes to leave—only for Olivia to suddenly grab his arm as he walks past her.

He gazes down at her. “Olivia? Are you good?”

“The job…,” she mumbles, half-asleep, only one eye barely peeking open. “You… You better accept it… You need it… And it’d be good for you…” She yawns, then winces. “Ow, my head… My heeead…”

Sandalphon wants to laugh, but his own headache isn’t exactly pleasant right now either. “Yeah, yeah, I will… Get some rest. I’ll see you later.”

“See—” Another yawn. “—you.”

She lets go of him. Sandalphon quietly takes his leave, closing the door behind him with a quiet _click_ , and crosses the hall in three steps to his own apartment. But, just as he’s about to unlock it, Belial’s door clicks open and Sandalphon bites his lip so hard it nearly bleeds.

“Oho, good afternoon, Sandy,” Belial drawls out in that same sultry tone, leaning against the doorframe as he inspects Sandalphon’s disheveled appearance. “Mm, it looks like you had a good time. Did you get lucky last night? You have to tell me all about it, down to the nastiest details.”

“The only nasty detail you need to know is my mouth tastes and smells like shit,” Sandalphon retorts.

Belial cocks a brow. “Oh? Like shit, you say? Did you eat a—”

“God, you are disgusting.”

“And you, my dear Sandy, are _gorgeous_. Such a shame you won’t let yourself go a little. I bet it’d make for a pretty sight…” Belial grins, and the sight churns Sandalphon’s stomach. How’d he get so unlucky to have a neighbor like Belial? He’s convinced he must be cursed.

“Don’t fantasize about me, asshole,” Sandalphon snaps, eyes narrowed. “Look. I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. I’m hungover as shit, so kindly fuck off, alright?”

Belial chuckles and raises his hands in a defensive manner. “Alright, alright, I’ll be gentle on you. But, first, won’t you let me give you a belated birthday present?”

Sandalphon stares. “How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“I heard you and Olivia yesterday. The walls are thin.”

“Yeah, no shit. I know.” He’s heard enough of Belial’s nightly affairs to damn the walls and whoever decided it’d be perfectly acceptable to build them so thin. “Anyway, something tells me your ‘present’ is just going to piss me off. I know you, Belial, even though I wish I didn’t.”

Belial coos softly. “Oh, that hurts, Sandy, that really hurts. But, that’s okay. I love a little bit of pain.” He pushes himself off the frame and reaches into his apartment for something. Sandalphon has every desire to ignore him, rightfully so, but curiosity gets the better of him and he finds himself waiting for Belial to pop back out.

And pop back out he does, with a small, elegantly wrapped box in hand. Belial crosses the small distance between them to hand it to him with a wink. “...What is it?” Sandalphon asks, eyeing the box before accepting it.

“Sweets, but I bet they’re not as sweet as you,” Belial answers, an insufferable smile spreading onto his lips. Sandalphon grimaces. “A little warning, though, they’re filled with booze, so I wouldn’t eat them anytime soon with that hangover of yours.”

“Let me guess: you heard me get wasted last night too.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t hear a thing. You just look and smell awful right now, Sandy, but don’t worry. There’s nothing sexier than a fucked up man who’s lost all control of his life. It’s the _hottest_ thing,” Belial drawls out. For once in the short time he’s known him, Sandalphon can’t tell if Belial is insulting him, or if he’s genuinely into that kind of thing. And, frankly, he doesn’t want to find out.

“...Well, thanks for the gift,” Sandalphon mumbles, opting to not respond to what he just had the misfortune of hearing. “Bye.”

“Bye-bye, Sandy. I’ll be seeing you.”

They part ways. Sandalphon escapes into the solace of his apartment and wastes no time in throwing his clothes off, shuffling along into the bathroom for a much needed shower. He brushes his teeth simultaneously, one, two, several times, purging the taste of alcohol and what he thinks might have been him throwing up once or twice. Too bad he doesn’t remember.

Once freshened up, he tosses on a fresh set of clothes and slumps onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I’m just full of bad decisions,” he mumbles to himself. Heaving a deep breath, he reaches for his laptop and props it open on his lap. Sure, he should probably—no, he should definitely—put a pillow underneath it, but at this point in a long timeline of misfortune, he’s convinced that even with a pillow he’ll develop some weird skin disease anyway.

What happens to him from now on is solely up to the gods. Wherever they may be, if they’re even there to begin with.

He immediately checks his email; oh, good, he’s received two commission inquiries. That’s better than nothing. Maybe the gods have finally decided to spare him some mercy after smacking him around back and forth for who knows how long. He reads through the inquiries, already imagining both requests in his head, and replies with one or two questions to each of them. His rates aren’t cheap—he needs to deliver what his clients are paying for, and that entails communication.

As he wraps up the nitty gritty bits, he eyes the flyer he left on the table and considers accepting the position like he told Olivia he would. In truth, he’s not entirely sure what he should do. Well, okay, scratch that—he knows what he _should_ do, but can he actually _do_ it? It’s the same question that’s haunted him all his life, whispering ceaseless negative thoughts into his head, convincing him that he isn’t nearly good enough for anything, anything at all. So why bother?

...No. Now’s not the time for self-doubt, not when everything he _has_ worked for up until this point is on the line. Not when the prospect of his mother finding out about his situation terrifies him more than eviction itself. Not when a woman who doesn’t even know him, who has no reason to trust him, took it upon herself to offer him a job face-to-face.

He’d be the true ‘brazen fool’ if he didn’t take the opportunity when presented to him in broad daylight.

Speaking of the cafe, he wonders if Lucifer is working right now, and the thought alone paints his cheeks pink. Should he go…? He’s well aware of the fact that he may come off as a creep, visiting the same place solely because his crush works there, but Lucifer did say he would be looking forward to his next visit. And, besides, the cafe would be a perfect setting to get a headstart on his commissions. At least a couple of sketches while he waits for his clients to reply.

Anyplace is better than here. The apartment is too hollow, too still, for his liking. It reminds him too much of himself.

Resolved, he stands up and gathers everything he needs: his phone and laptop, his tablet along with extra pen nibs just in case, and the most commonly forgotten essential for any person living in this technologically-advanced era, chargers. He can’t count the number of times he’s left his chargers at home when he needed them the most. Neatly organizing everything into his messenger bag, he slings it on and prepares himself with a few deep breaths.

He’s going to see Lucifer again. He has to ensure he doesn’t stop dead in his tracks and forget how to breathe the moment he looks at him.

Well, here goes nothing.

 

—

 

God—he’s never been more grateful to have his own means of transportation. Years of enduring cramped buses and rickety trains have finally culminated in the beauty that is his motorcycle; he’s only had it for two days but if anything happened to it, he’d kill everyone in the room and then himself.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration. Maybe.

There’s no open parking spaces in front of the cafe at this hour—1 PM, he realizes; damn, how long had he been passed out?—so he’s forced to park a few blocks away in front of some laundromat. He quickly makes his way to the cafe, but not too quick, in case he looks like he’s desperate. If Belial were here, he’d certainly say he is.

Wait, no. Absolutely not. Under no circumstances can Sandalphon let Belial find out about his crush on Lucifer. Belial is the last person in the world he’d ever give that amount of power to—he’d sooner die.

The little bell rings when he enters the cafe, and he’s once again greeted by the woman with the pink hair. Her eyes soften upon seeing him, and she momentarily stops her task of tending to the plants to walk over to him. “Welcome, welcome, it’s so wonderful to see you again.” She bows her head a little and places her hand over her chest. “Ah, I forgot to introduce myself to you yesterday. My name is Gabriel. You are Sandalphon, yes?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” He offers a polite smile in return. “Let me guess, you’re also a friend of Olivia’s?”

Gabriel giggles softly. “I’m acquainted with her, yes. She’s a regular here and always a delight to talk to.” She gestures to the line; oh, there’s more people than yesterday. Way more people. He should’ve expected this. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. We’re a little busy at the moment, but Lucifer is a master at handling the rush hour.” She gives him a dainty little wave as she returns to the plants. “Have a lovely day now.”

Talk about sweet. Gabriel probably puts all of the cafe’s pastries to shame. “Thanks, you too.” 

Sandalphon steps into the line, hands shoved into his pockets, and patiently waits for his turn. As he nervously taps his foot, anxiety bubbling up in his stomach, he reminds himself to _breathe_. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Letting his anxiety rule over him won’t do him any favors. If anything, it’ll only complicate things more than necessary.

He looks up. The moment he does, Lucifer glances in his general direction, and their eyes meet. Sandalphon’s heart nearly stops in his chest, and when Lucifer flashes him a warm smile, it all but explodes. Oh, god. He’s got it bad. To think one smile can send his heart into overdrive like that—how could this happen to him?

By the time it’s Sandalphon’s turn to order, it feels like a thousand years has passed. He greets Lucifer with a small smile and almost forgets what he’s doing, until Lucifer speaks up.

“Welcome to the Garden of Eden, Sandalphon. What can I get you for today?”

Something pops in Sandalphon’s head and snaps him back to reality. Right, he didn’t come here to gawk at Lucifer. That’s not what people do at cafes. Usually. “Oh, um, can I have…” Fuck. He didn’t actually come with an order in mind. He completely forgot how cafes work, apparently.

Lucifer, meanwhile, smiles and waits. Dammit, he’s gorgeous.

“The… The…” Shit, fuck, he has to order _something_. He scrambles through his hazy memory in search of the drink from yesterday. What did Lucifer call it again? Little Robin? Little Crow? He knows it’s a bird, but what bird? There’s too many damn birds. “Little—”

“—Sparrow?” Lucifer, ever the savior, completes for him.

“Uh, yeah, that one,” Sandalphon says, hiding his relief as though he knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t.

“What size?”

“Um, medium.”

Lucifer taps away at the screen. “Would you like anything else?”

“N-no, that’s it, thank you.”

“Of course. That’ll be $4.45.”

Money. Right, he has to pay. Sandalphon fumbles around in his bag for his wallet and pulls out a five-dollar bill, handing it to Lucifer with all the grace of a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time. He’s like a teenager again, stumbling over his words, making everything more awkward and complicated than it has to be.

For better or for worse, Lucifer doesn’t seem to mind. He accepts the money with a small nod, counts out the right amount of change without even looking, and gently deposits the coins into Sandalphon’s hand. “Fifty-five cents is your change. Your order will be ready momentarily.”

“Uh, thanks,” Sandalphon mumbles, his cheeks heating up more and more every time he hears Lucifer’s voice. “H-have a good day.”

Lucifer’s smile softens. “You as well, Sandalphon.”

Heart soaring into the clouds, Sandalphon excuses himself from the counter and finds a lone booth to sit at. Well, that was awkward, all thanks to Sandalphon himself. Lucifer didn’t even bat an eye.

_I’m a moron._

Somewhere, in the distance, he hears Azazel agreeing with him. Good thing he isn’t here right now.

Sighing, Sandalphon settles into the cushions and prepares to distract himself with commissions; he came here to be productive, after all. He sets up his laptop and tablet with practiced familiarity, all wires in place, only to discover he forgot his number one tool: his earphones.

Looks like he’ll be listening to the cafe ambience today.

It’s pleasant, at least, not too noisy, but not too quiet either. He’s come to realize he isn’t all too fond of silence, even though he enjoys his alone time every now and then. Silence—it’s a little scary, being left alone with only your own voice and thoughts. Dark things thrive in silence.

It’s been quite some time since he last drew anything, so he decides to warm up with a few sketches. He ends up sketching Gran and Djeeta in a few minutes, their teasing grins practically identical to the real thing. He must truly be traumatized to be able to replicate their grins in a matter of a few strokes.

“Little Sparrow for Sandalphon!” a voice calls out.

Perking up, he sets down his pen and walks over to the counter. A petite young woman with flower pins in her blonde hair hands him his drink. “Enjoy!” she chimes in a soft voice.

She reminds him of Gabriel for some reason. The gentle demeanor, the soft tone of voice—a strange sense of ease washes over him just from hearing a few words. “...Thank you,” he says, shaking off the feeling. He returns to his seat and sets his coffee down, ready to resume work.

Except he makes the mistake of looking up to see Lucifer idly wiping the counter down, no more customers to attend to for the time being. Head slightly bowed, hair tucked behind his ear, Lucifer is serenity himself, an aura of calm enveloping him in every little thing that he does. It’s...mesmerizing. Sandalphon can’t bring himself to look away.

 _...Stop staring, you idiot,_ he rebukes himself. Snapping out of his trance, he curses under his breath and reaches for his coffee, only to misjudge where he’s placed it. He knocks it right off the table, sending it into crashing onto the floor with a loud splash. Coffee splatters everywhere—on the booth, on his clothes, seeping through the fabric to burn his skin.

The gods are at it again, so it seems.

He winces, the coffee too hot on his skin, but fortunately not enough to leave serious damage. But now he’s at the center of attention, all eyes on him, complete strangers murmuring to each other as they stare. His cheeks burn with embarrassment. He wants nothing more than for the earth to open up underneath him and swallow him whole, never to be seen again.

“Are you alright?”

He looks up to find Lucifer standing right _there_ , wide-eyed and breathless. Behind him, Sandalphon sees Gabriel and the blonde woman hurrying to gather napkins and a mop. “Huh? Oh, I’m—I’m fine.”

“It landed on you.”

“Just a little bit. I’m fine, I promise.” Sandalphon stares at the flecks of coffee now staining his jeans. “...If anything, I’m really sorry about the mess. I wasn’t paying attention and I just...”

Lucifer shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. It happens.” The blonde woman approaches and hands him a thick wad of napkins. “Thank you, Europa.” He moves to wipe off the coffee splatter from the booth and neighboring table.

“Miss Gabriel should be back with the mop shortly,” Europa says. She turns to Sandalphon and tilts her head. “Are you sure you’re alright? We have a first aid kit for burn treatment.”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine, but thank you anyway.” Driven by the sheer impulse to save face, Sandalphon stands up, careful to avoid the hot coffee puddle. “L-let me help.”

Europa blinks. “Oh, no, you don’t have t—”

But Sandalphon is already grabbing napkins from a nearby table, ignoring both Lucifer and Europa’s polite protests. He’s stopped thinking by now. The anxiety, the embarrassment, both tearing away at him from inside—he’s lost control of himself.

Just as he’s about to touch boiling hot coffee with a thin, flimsy napkin, Lucifer reaches out and grabs his arm. He holds Sandalphon in place and looks him right in the eye. “Please, Sandalphon, let us take care of this,” he pleads softly. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

It’s hard to breathe. Lucifer’s words, spoken with such sincerity, are not enough to lure him from the disarray running rampant through his head.

“It’s fine. Breathe, Sandalphon, breathe,” Lucifer coaxes in a gentle tone. “It’s alright. It was just an accident.”

Gabriel arrives at the scene with the mop and wastes no time in soaking up the mess. She and Europa exchange a few words, but Sandalphon suddenly can’t understand what either of them say; haze fills his head, and his vision blurs. Even with Lucifer’s affirmations, he can’t focus. He can’t think. He wants to throw up.

“Sandalphon—”

“—is he—”

“I think he’s—”

“—panic attack.”

Their voices overlap in his head. He doesn’t know who is who anymore. Darkness floods his vision and all he can see, in place of the brown coffee, is a pool of crimson red.

Blood.

“Do something—”

“He’s—”

“I can’t—”

“—lose him again—”

His heart hammers in his chest. His lungs force out breath after breath, one after the other, never stopping to rest.

Why is there so much blood? Why does his body burn as if ripped through with a blade?

“—come back to us.”

A bright light appears before him. It blinds him, banishing the sight of the blood into nothing, and lures him out of the dark until, at last, he opens his eyes.

Lucifer, Gabriel, Michael—the three of them stand around him, eyeing him with intense worry in a small, unfamiliar room. “Oh!” Gabriel gasps, her phone in hand. “He’s awake. Thank goodness.”

“Where…?” Sandalphon mumbles, voice groggy and strained. He notices he’s lying down on a sofa, a bag of ice on his forehead.

“This is our staff room,” Michael replies. She crosses her arms over her chest. “We brought you back here when you passed out.”

“I...passed out?”

“Yes,” Michael answers. “You had us all worried.”

Sandalphon stares at the trio. “God, I’m so—”

“It’s alright, really,” Gabriel interjects. “Please, don’t beat yourself up over this. We’re all grateful to see that you’re alright.” She gestures to his messenger bag on the table behind her. “I gathered all your things for you. I’m about to call an ambulance, so please just—” 

“No, I can’t afford that,” Sandalphon blurts out. “Wait, I mean, no, I… I’m fine. It was just...a panic attack.” He refuses to tell them about the blood and the burning of his body. They’ll think he’s crazy. Even he thinks he’s crazy.

“Are you sure…?”

“Yeah… Yeah. I’m sure.”

Lucifer keeps quiet. His expression is difficult to read, brows furrowed, head bowed ever so slightly, as if torn between worry and… Guilt? Why would he feel guilt, when he's done nothing wrong?

Sandalphon wants to call out to him, to speak his name, to hear his voice. But he doesn’t. He’s too afraid, especially now that Lucifer has seen a side of him Sandalphon never, ever wanted him to see.

“...I should get going,” Sandalphon mutters. Slowly, and with Gabriel’s aid, he sits up and removes the bag of ice. “...Um, thank you. For everything.”

“It’s no problem, darling,” Gabriel says, smiling ever so sweetly. “If you need anything, anything at all, we are here for you. You’re more than just a customer to us, after all.”

He doesn’t understand. These people he only just met yesterday—how can they be so kind to him, so selfless and understanding? He doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to invite bond and attachment, he doesn’t want to risk chasing them away with his own self-destructive behavior, his refusal to open up. It’d be better if he just...never comes back.

But, he knows, somewhere deep in his mind, that he’ll keep coming back, no matter how many times he tells himself not to.

He’s painfully aware of Michael and Gabriel watching his every movement as he stands up to retrieve his belongings. He slings his bag on, checks his pockets for his phone, and turns around to bid his goodbyes just as Lucifer _finally_ speaks up.

“Will you be alright getting home on your own?”

Sandalphon meets his gaze. It’s almost painful to look at Lucifer, the way he regards Sandalphon as though he were a bird with its wings clipped. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Will we see you again?”

“...Yeah.”

Lucifer smiles, and Sandalphon falls helpless to him once more.

 

—

 

The first thing Sandalphon notices when he returns to his apartment is the package sitting in front of his door. The second thing he notices when he steps closer is that there’s no return address, but his name is there, clear as day.

“Huh.”

He picks it up and weighs it in his hands; it feels like a book, and a heavy one at that. Who the hell sent him a book?

Ripping the package open, he finds a note inside and reads it out loud.

“Happy belated birthday, Sandalphon. I hope this book finds you safely, and that it may provide all the answers you need, when you need them. Love, a faraway friend.”

Who the fuck?

He should ignore it. He knows he should ignore it. But he _can’t_. As if compelled by some other force, he brings the book inside the apartment and settles on the couch. The cover is simple, black, with the title printed in gold, serif text: _Within Dawn and Dusk_. Underneath the title is the author’s name—000.

“Interesting pseudonym,” Sandalphon mumbles, pulling out his phone to search for the author. “...Aaand, there’s nothing. Of course. Someone’s definitely playing an elaborate prank on me.”

He hesitantly opens to the first page and begins to read.

_“In the beginning, there was darkness, but then the darkness gave way to a light split in two…”_

He hears humming. Soft, gentle humming. Warmth wraps around him, tugging at his eyes until they close, slowly, to the voiceless song. The humming continues, weaving in and out, flooding him with serenity and light.

He sees nothing but that light, caught between radiant dawn and tenebrous dusk.


	3. (overture)

(The humming coaxes Sandalphon awake to the sight of nothing.)

In the beginning, there was darkness, but then the darkness gave way to a light split in two. Radiant dawn and tenebrous dusk—fragments of the same whole. Inseparable, eternal, they are two halves bound to each other by the thread of time, forever flowing through the infinity of nothing.

(He falls through empty space, weightlessly, his eyes staring wide at the darkness above him. Light slowly dawns in the form of stars that bloom, one by one, across the vast, infinite expanse. Two brilliant spheres—one gilded in gold, the other swathed in silver—manifest among the scattering of stars, high above, far out of his reach.

It hurts to look at them, and yet for some reason he can’t turn away.)

One without the other cannot be. Dawn brings dusk, and dusk brings dawn—a careful balance, suspended in the cycle that spins on and on. If one is to ever flicker out, the thread of time will snap, and all will still into silence and stagnation once more.

( _Where...am I?_ )

The Dawn and Dusk know this. They bind themselves to a single vow, to never let the balance of their own existence fall into ruin. Together, they pledge their unwavering loyalty to the darkness that birthed them, and devote their immortal lives to protecting the worlds that flourish in the light. Together, as equals, Dawn and Dusk lead all of existence in the stead of their slumbering master, waiting for the day he will awaken anew.

But until then, all shall fall into their hands.

( _This...must be a dream…_ )

And so the Aether is born by their will.

(The darkness shifts. A sudden surge of gravity seizes his body and throws him downward, sending him sprawling into a field of stars. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound escapes, not even when the fabric of space rips open underneath him and swallows him whole into a fissure of blinding blue light.

He stares wide-eyed as he’s dragged through the fissure’s spiraling form, no end in sight to wherever he is, whatever is happening. Several dozen voices, layered over each other in one discordant orchestra, echo out from the light coiling around him, but he can’t make sense of what they say. He can’t make sense of anything. It’s all too much—the light, the voices, the endless fall.

_Wake up! Wake up, you idiot!_

His voice echoes loud in his head; when again he tries to speak, he can’t, his voice stripped from him. All he can do is hug himself tightly, curling up into a fetal position as he allows this strange dream to do as it pleases. It’ll all be over soon, won’t it? It’s only a dream.

 _Only a dream…_ )

Oh, if only.

 

—

 

(Sandalphon forces his eyes open, expecting to be greeted by his bland living room, only to find himself curled up on a smooth marble surface. He blinks, scrambles onto his knees, and inspects his surroundings with several, quick turns of his head.

_A...temple?_

It certainly looks the part, elegant in every aspect. Towering columns finely sculpted from marble, accentuated with thin, white curtains billowing along a soundless breeze; a triangular glass dome looming above, each crystalline panel held together by thin, gold framing; and at the center, an altar, perched atop a set of seven alabaster steps. It’s...beautiful, to say the least. Ethereal. A place surely crafted by heavenly hands.

Even the aura is otherworldly, filling the air with a grand presence akin to that of a god. Sandalphon’s never considered himself the religious type, but he can’t deny the sheer power emanating from the temple, weighing down on him with its phantom force. It forces him to bow his head, as if deeming him unworthy of such grace.

But it’s only a dream.

He pushes himself onto his feet, standing on shaky legs as he regains control over his body. At least he isn’t being hurtled through empty space again. Here, he can stand, and move about freely. Perhaps he can even…

He opens his mouth and tries to speak—nope, nothing. This dream is intent on silencing him forever, so it seems.

_Might as well explore until I wake up…_

Unsure of where to begin, he takes a tentative step toward the altar and pauses. He takes another step, and another, conscious of each and every movement he makes just in case he winds up inadvertently awakening some slumbering beast. Anything can happen in a dream, after all. Anything can easily turn it into a nightmare when he leasts expects it.

He ascends the steps slowly, hesitance in his motions, until he reaches the altar. It’s rather simple in design, just a large slab of alabaster with wings engraved into the sides along with other intricate motifs, but the simplicity only emphasizes its beauty.

Drawn to it, he rests his palm on the top and slides his fingers along the smooth surface. Something suddenly aches deep within his chest. His other hand grips onto his shirt, trying in vain to stave the pain away, but he can’t. He can’t shake off the weight inside of him, nor the cold, unnerving sensation that sends shivers slithering down his spine.

_Why do I feel like I’ve been here before?_

A powerful burst of wind rips through the temple, violently batting the curtains aside. By sheer instinct, Sandalphon ducks behind the altar and presses his back against the chiseled surface, expecting the arrival of some nightmarish creature. He braces for it, the cry of some beast splitting the sky, the scrape of claws scarring the marble. But, it never comes. When the wind at last settles, there’s only silence.

He peeks his head over his hiding spot, and sees nothing—nothing except the sight that all but steals his breath away.

The sun and the moon, together, suspended in the same sky. A crimson dawn streaks across the sky, blending with the starlit canvas of the night. They converge in the middle to create a lovely violet hue, a perfect marriage of two forces destined to never meet, much less touch.

As the curtains slowly descend into their original positions, Sandalphon realizes that he’s no longer alone.)

Two grand figures stand on opposite sides of the temple, one clad in flowing silk robes as white as the shell of a pearl, and the other in ashen black vestments bearing the fabric of a starry night. A gold, six-pointed halo hovers behind the one in white, casting a faint glow on his long, sunlight-kissed hair, while a crown of thorns sits on the head of the one in black, onyx spines nestled among short white strands.

They are Shahar and Shalim—the Dawn and Dusk, a light split in two.

(Sandalphon ducks again; he’s not sure if they can see him, but anything is possible in a dream.)

“So you finally answered my call,” Shahar speaks up, always the first to rise. His voice is airy and melodious, much like the song of a harp.

Shalim responds with a firm press of his lips. “Only to silence you, Shahar. What are you in such desperate need of that you saw it fit to disrupt me?” Like his appearance, his voice contrasts Shahar’s; his tone is deep and gravely, bereft of levity.

“A simple concern, that’s all.” His lips curving into a smile, Shahar approaches his counterpart and gestures to the temple. “This place… It only recently occurred to me that we left it unattended. I had hoped that we could have someone worthy enough keep guard of it, considering that this _is_ the sacred boundary between our two realms. It’s deserving of a gatekeeper, wouldn’t you agree?”

“A gatekeeper…” Shalim chuffs and raises a clawed hand to his chin. “As if anyone within our legions would ever be worthy to reign over the Twilight. We have left the boundary unattended for centuries with no issue. Why concern yourself with it now?”

“Well…”

“Well? Spit it out.”

Shahar heaves out a sigh. “...A compromise, Shalim. I’d like to create a compromise with you.”

“For what reason, exactly?”

“We have drifted apart. Before, we had always been so close, but now… I can’t recall the last time we crossed paths. I understand that we both have our individual tasks to uphold, for the sake of our Master, but I fear that a rift between the Dawn and Dusk will only lead to ruin.” Shahar musters a smile, but Shalim only returns a cold, vacant stare.

“My, I would’ve never suspected you’d be prone to paranoia. Do you not trust me?” Shalim questions. He crosses his arms over his chest, violet eyes boring deep into Shahar’s sky blue gaze.

“Of course I trust you. I trust you with my life and my light, but neither of us can predict what will happen in the future. We failed to foresee the Rupture and the rise of the Hollowed… We have yet to know the consequences of their continued existence.”

“I see. You only wish to prepare for the uncertain.”

“Yes. You understand, then?”

Shalim studies Shahar’s hopeful face for a moment, the Dawn’s visage always so bright, so luminous. Truly, he is the morning star, but Shalim cannot stand to linger in his radiance for too long—lest he blind himself. “I suppose I do.”

“Then, you will hear me out?”

“I suppose I will.”

Shahar’s smile beams as bright as his light, forcing Shalim to glance away as the Dawn whisks himself to the altar. “As you said, there is no one within our ranks who can possibly bear the burden of the Twilight,” he begins, ascending the steps. “No one but ourselves, of course, yet we must rule over our respective realms. That is why… I propose a simple solution: we combine our powers to create an intermediary.”

(Sandalphon’s breath catches in his throat. Shahar is standing on the other side of the altar; a few more steps and he’ll find the broke college graduate where he definitely doesn’t belong.)

“An intermediary?” Shalim clicks his tongue. “Elaborate.”

“Just as you and I are the Temporals of the Dawn and Dusk, we can give life to a third, the Temporal of the Twilight.”

Shalim furrows his brows and hums low. “Temporal of the Twilight…”

“Living within both the dawn and dusk, he will represent the waning and waxing of light, and the pockets of time before sunrise and sunset,” Shahar explains. “He will be the boundary itself.”

“He?”

“I may or may not have already chosen a name and design.”

“Eager, aren’t you?”

Shahar chuckles breathlessly. “I had every hope that you would be in agreement.”

“So you took the matters of his creation entirely upon yourself, based on your presumptions,” Shalim sneers, his eyes narrowing sharply.

“...Was that wrong of me?”

“It was certainly impudent. For all your talk of drifting apart, you neglected to send word of your _concern_ the moment you conceived it,” Shalim drawls out. He sees no reason to raise his voice even in the midst of his own contempt. His vitriol burns hotter the colder he spits it out.

(Sandalphon winces as each and every word pierces the air. Whoever this guy is, he would absolutely _hate_ to be on his bad side. His blood runs cold just at the thought.)

Shahar falls silent. The seconds tick by—except there is no flow of time here where the sun and moon reign as equals. There is only the beating of hearts to measure the distance from one word to the next.

“...I would apologize,” Shahar speaks up, “had I not sent word several times. You elected to turn each and every one of my messengers away before you at last agreed to hold counsel with me. What was I to do until then?”

The spell of silence casts upon Shalim next, weighing heavier on him than it had on Shahar. To have his own words turned against him… He seethes within, but keeps his disdain hidden under the veil of a scoff. “Very well. You’ve made your point.”

“Trust in me, my dearest Shalim, when I tell you that I wished for nothing more than to find the answer together. You are my other half, my equal,” Shahar says with a forlorn sigh. “You mean more to me than words could ever describe.”

“Enough of your sentiment. I said you’ve made your point.” Dismissing Shahar’s heartfelt words with a quick wave of his hand, Shalim ascends the shrine and takes his place opposite Shahar. “Go on, then. What name did you choose?”

(Sandalphon stills. This Shalim is standing right next to him, oblivious to his entire existence. Can he really not see him?

He peers up to get a better look at his face, only to find himself staring at the exact replica of Lucifer’s face. Except this face isn’t kind or soft. No, it’s all cold and hard, lips pulled into taut displeasure, and eyes so sharp they could cut with a single glare.

And yet he’s beautiful like Lucifer. Eerily, maliciously beautiful.)

“Lucifer.”

( _Huh?_ )

Shalim cocks a brow. “Lucifer?”

“Yes, the bringer of light.” Shahar gives a little nod, an earnest smile gracing his lovely face. “For he will be the one who leads the sun and the moon.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any objections?”

“No.” Shalim inhales, exhales. “I am choosing to trust in your judgement, for both his name and creation. But there is something I expect in return.”

Shahar tilts his head ever so slightly, his sunlight hair draping onto the floor alongside his robes. “And that would be…?”

“Leave all matters of training to me. I will be the one to teach him and inform him of his duties.”

“Very well. I couldn’t possibly think of another better suited for the task.” Shahar sets his palms onto the altar and motions for Shalim to do the same. “Shall we begin?”

“Mhm.”

(Urged on by an inane curiosity, Sandalphon shuffles away from his hiding spot; it’s not like it was doing him any favors, considering he’s invisible to them. He steps away from the altar, finds a safe distance, and allows himself to be mystified by these _gods_ beginning to cast their power.

And yet he still can’t help but laugh to himself. Shalim’s face, the name Shahar chose for their creation—why is it all Lucifer? Is Sandalphon that smitten with him, to the point that Lucifer has now become the central focus of his dream?

An extremely odd dream at that. Everything feels and sounds so real, like he’s truly in another world, but it’s all mere fantasy. None of this is real. As enthralling as it all is, none of this is real.)

Radiant dawn and tenebrous dusk emerge from the hands of their sovereigns and gravitate to one another, tethered by their unspoken bond. They unite at the center of all, blending into each other, merging their light after being forced apart since the beginning. The light split in two now becomes a whole.

A new genesis, for a new hope.

“With this, I give you the dawn,” Shahar whispers sweetly.

“And with this, I give you the dusk,” Shalim mutters under his breath.

The new light slowly takes corporeal form; the tinges of dusk fade into white hair, and the remnants of dawn give way to sky blue eyes. Wisps of light fall away to reveal a body much like Shahar’s and Shalim’s, toned and fair-skinned, but with six grand wings in place of a halo or crown.

Three are white, three are black. The mismatched wings protrude from the new light’s back and spread their feathers wide, displaying their grandeur.

Shahar raises his fingers to his mouth in awe. “He’s gorgeous.”

“No, he’s more than that,” Shalim mumbles. He cannot lift his stare from the face that mirrors his own. “He’s perfect.”

(Sandalphon’s breath hitches. That white hair, those blue eyes…)

And so Lucifer is born.

(But this Lucifer isn’t the same—he can’t be. His vacant stare is dark and dull, empty of emotion. He doesn’t have the same kind eyes and smile like the Lucifer Sandalphon knows. This one is no different than a doll, even with all of his beauty.

_Why am I dreaming this?_

Suddenly his surroundings shatter. Sandalphon isn’t given time to think when the ground opens up underneath him, swallows him whole, and sends him spiraling through the blinding blue rift as it did before.

_Dammit, not this shit again!_

By now, he knows what to expect. He endures the endless voices assailing him from all sides, and holds himself tight. What more does this dream want him to see, and why can’t he control any of it?

Why is he so helpless to a dream?

He knows there’s no use in asking these questions, not when he also knows he can’t find an answer. But that won’t stop him from questioning everything. He doesn’t know what else to do.

He closes his eyes, and prays for an end to this.)

 

—

 

(His prayer is left unanswered.

The rift spits him out onto a grassy field, not granting him the luxury of waking up like it did the first time. No, this time it saw it fit to throw him onto the ground for whatever reason. He lands with a choked yelp, and tumbles down a hill until he smacks into a piece of rubble.

_I really fucking hate this thing._

Weakly pushing himself onto his knees, he grits his teeth and lifts his aching head—only to come face-to-face with a mangled corpse. He thrusts himself away, falling back onto the rubble with a shout, and stares in horror at the grotesque sight laid out before him.

The body is deathly pale, nearly white, with black thorned vines crawling across the skin. Whatever clothing it had worn is nothing but rags now. And its face—god, its face, sunken and hollow and caught in an eternal wail.

_I think I’m going to be sick._

He looks away and holds himself, nails digging into his arms. If only he could wake up. If only he could snap out of this endless reverie once and for all. He’s tired. He’s supposed to be asleep and yet he feels more tired than anything.

Eager to create as much distance as he can between him and the corpse, Sandalphon trudges into the surrounding field without another thought. He navigates around the debris of some grand structure strewn about, briefly wondering to himself what it must’ve originally been. Another temple? Perhaps a castle? 

Lost in his thoughts, he fails to notice the series of rifts opening up above him. It isn’t until something drops in front of him that he stops in his tracks and stares. Another corpse. Except this one isn’t dead. It’s alive, writhing on the ground, blue flames where its eyes should be. It pushes itself up onto its mutated feet and spits a guttural snarl at him, but it stares beyond where he stands.

He wants to run. Even if it can’t see him, he _wants_ to run. But he can’t. He stands there, frozen in place, caught in the maw of horror.

The flutter of wings captures his attention, and then—)

A blade slices through the creature’s neck in a fluid motion. Its head falls, flames extinguished, and rolls across the ground until it bumps into the foot of its slayer. He stares at the hollow head with equally hollow eyes, and kicks it away from him. He turns his head toward the sky as the wind ruffles his feathery white hair, and spreads his mismatched wings wide.

( _...Lucifer?_

The man in question stands beside him, fingers curled around the hilt of a finely crafted sword. He’s equipped with light armor; just a breastplate and set of gauntlets, the rest of his apparel nothing but black, skintight leather. His muscled back is bare, no doubt for his wings.

Much like Shahar and Shalim, he can’t seem to perceive Sandalphon is even there. He’s another character in this dream, and as before, Sandalphon is the unwilling audience.)

More of the creature’s kind descend from the rifts, each one just as grotesque as the last; some have mangled wings, some have broken horns, and some have both. All of them, however, suffer the same strain of the black thorned vines, and their eyes all burn with blue flame.

They are the Hollowed, children of the Rupture.

Lucifer says nothing. No fear, no mercy in his eyes, he commences the purging of these tainted things. One by one, he cuts them down, slicing through their necks, piercing through their corrupted cores. He spares no mercy even for the familiar faces, their mouths twisted into permanent pain.

When the brutality at last comes to an end, Lucifer stands at the center of a hundred or so Hollowed corpses. He stares vacantly at each and every one of them, nothing in his heart, nothing in his mind but the simple realization that his task is now complete.

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer glances up to the sound of his name. He finds Shalim standing among the swaying grass, his expression unreadable. “My friend. The Hollowed have been purged from this area, as you so willed it.”

Shalim studies his face for a moment, then turns to assess the carnage. “Such merciless behavior, befitting of an executioner, but not befitting of you.” He approaches Lucifer with confident strides, until the two are face-to-face. “You did not even speak the final rites for the ones you knew.”

“They are no longer Risen nor Fallen,” Lucifer replies.

“But they were. Do not punish them for falling prey to the Rupture. You have seen its effects for yourself—it’s a disease. One without a cure.” Shalim reaches out and gently tucks a bit of hair behind Lucifer’s hair. “I would hate to see you fall ill to it, Lucifer. You...who shine the brightest, in both the light and the dark.”

Lucifer does not so much as blink. “What would you have me do, my friend?”

“Relinquish your blades. Preside over the Primarchs. Leave this endless war to the legionnaires for now.” Shalim closes his eyes and sighs. “Then you will know.”

“I understand. It shall be as you will it.”

Shalim opens his eyes halfway and glances at Lucifer. Then, he stretches his hand out toward the Hollowed corpses and utters four simple words.

“I purify thy soul.”

The wind shifts, and the Hollowed wither into wisps of blue ash. Lucifer’s eyes follow the trail of the wisps as they disappear into the air. “Where do they go?” he asks quietly.

“They return to the Aether,” Shalim answers, “to be reborn.”

(The dream shatters.

_Wait—not again—_

Sandalphon is thrust into darkness, and all falls into silence.)


End file.
